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... settled enough for the horizon to reappear, there was always movement—wagon wheels creaking, pack animals snorting, guards muttering half-prayers under their breath.
Nana sat atop the rear wagon with her legs dangling over the side, spear resting across her lap, eyes half-lidded against the glare.
She hated sand.
Not feared it.
Not disrespected it.
Hated it.
It crept everywhere, no matter how carefully she wrapped herself.
In her boots.
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