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... imneys spat thin smoke that vanished in a pewter sky. Guild scouts still guarded the gates, their slate‑gray cloaks a silent warning: We are watching.

Deep below greenhouse wing, in the dim blue glow of lichen, Zephyr crouched beside Star's nest. The hatchling's wings now stretched twenty‑seven centimeters tip to tip. Each flight drill lengthened the span, but they needed more growth. The System said a first molt would trigger at thirty‑five. Only then would Star's bones harden for true ...

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