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... ading itself into Argolaith's senses like a subtle rhythm beneath his breath.

He stood at the edge of the trial grove, the awakened seed cradled in his palm. Its glow had dimmed now, but it was still warm—warm in a way that didn't burn but remembered. The stone altar behind him no longer pulsed. The grove had gone still, satisfied, like a great beast that had judged and found him worthy.

And yet…

The call of the third tree wasn't what he expected.

Argolaith's brow ...

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