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... > He wasn’t wrong. The road to the Iron Hold was less of a road and more of a scar cut into the side of a black, smoking peak. The air grew hotter with every turn of the wagon wheels, smelling of sulfur and impending doom.
I sat next to Tybalt on the driver’s bench, wearing a spare, flour-dusted apron I’d found in the back of his cart. I had rubbed soot on my face to hide my features, but honestly, nobody looks closely at the delivery guy.
"Just keep the reins steady, Ty," I said ...
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