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... nly the rhythm of footsteps and the low, quiet hum of the root fragment resting in Argolaith's palm.

He carried it like something sacred, wrapping it in a cloth of dark weave and binding it at his belt, where it pulsed with a gentle glow only he could feel.

It didn't pull like the rune did.

It guided.

Softly.

Patiently.

The group moved southwest, crossing dry hills where the wind tasted of charcoal and stillness. Nothing lived here—not visibly. No ...

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