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... of half-dead pine and kept going down. I didn’t like it. Too quiet, too worn. Nothing recent had passed through—no carts, no patrol marks, no runner tags on the bark.
We were still a half-day from the village when Glare caught up.
"You slowed," he said.
"I was thinking."
"Did it help?"
"No."
He grunted and fell into step beside me. We didn’t talk for a while after that. The trees thinned the closer we got. I could see smoke ahead—low, not urgent. C ...
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