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... Hated carrying them. Hated when people gave them meaning they didn’t deserve.

But he liked being alive.

So he wrote three anyway.

One for a broker in Virecross, coin-heavy and discreet. Another for a smuggler contact who knew how to whisper near the Lorienya border. The third he folded twice, didn’t sign, and burned the edges on purpose.

That one would go to a man Sylric hadn’t seen in four years.

And hadn’t missed once.

He pressed his thumb to th ...

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