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... cloth, scarred at the sleeves, cut loose enough to move in. The kind of clothes you bled in without guilt.

He left early.

No fanfare. No detours.

The Northern Tower loomed quiet in the haze, its windows catching the sunrise like slivers of molten glass. Leon climbed the outer stair alone, passing no one. The third bell hadn’t rung yet.

But the man was already there.

Older. Tall. Not in armour, but still imposing—like someone who’d worn it too long to ever ...

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