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... word for hooked claws, which fit, considering her… everything. She made a deep, acidic hiss as Otherworld mana flooded through her, head tilted, silver motes drifting over her form. Her Ancestral Tree shifted, twisting its thorned roots until it almost seemed to open, carving a den within the sandy soil—Svythe stumbled towards it, weight shifting like she wanted to raise her arm to nudge away the thorns. But her arm was gone. The thorns moved for her regardless, shifting back so she could curl u ...

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