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... g the ruts — so ordinary that most soldiers’ eyes slid right past its sagging tarpaulin, its mud-spattered wheels, the thin cracks in its faded paint. Only careful inspection revealed the whisper-fine runes drawn by Raine’s alchemy chalk: sigils that bent light so edges blurred, that dimmed sound, that coaxed attention elsewhere. The illusion was deliberate mundanity, the best kind of camouflage in a triumphant procession.
Inside, Ara sat ramrod straight on a crate of barley, hands folde ...
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