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... g the clearing stood silent, as if waiting for the storm to come.
Inigo stood on the wooden platform at the edge of the training field, arms crossed, rifle slung across his back. Lyra stood beside him, checking the last of the paint rounds—red-dyed cartridges packed into waxed paper shells. Non-lethal, but painful. A lesson that left a mark.
"They’re ready?" Lyra asked, tying her hair back.
"No," Inigo replied. "But it’s time they learn what readiness actually means."
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