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... ough lit by a thousand fires. Not the destructive flames that once scorched the battlefield, but something softer—warmth, legacy, the promise of renewal.
Zephyr stood alone on the eastern balcony, the wind tousling his silver hair. For the first time in weeks, there was silence. Not the kind brought by fear or exhaustion, but the kind born after war—after everything worth dying for had been fought for, and survived.
Behind him, the rustle of silk whispered.
Clarissa stepp ...
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