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Not a word. Just our boots in the mud, the rustling of armor, the damp wind slipping between the stones. The stench of death clung to everything. Rotting wood. Rusted iron. Dried blood. Even the trees looked like they were rotting in place.
I moved ahead of the group, eyes alert.
To my right, Sergen was gritting his teeth. Kal walked with his head down, shield raised halfway. The two archers behind were no longer acting tough. And Irla... Irla was shaking. Not from fear. Fro ...
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