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... ped up, swaddled in makeshift bandages fashioned from her own regenerating clothing.

She leaned back against a trunk split by fire, eyes half-lidded, listening to the strange quiet of Vaingall's wilderness. The air smelled sharp and cold, like iron and burnt ether.

As of now, Samael had gone hunting.

Before she vanished into the treeline, Samael had promised food—after bluntly declaring that she wasn't going to let her "accursed Fateling" starve if she wanted answers. Not ...

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