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Their metallic screeches, like the grinding of rusted gears, no longer echoed through the battered streets. The city stood firm, its walls splattered with blood and scorched by battle, yet unbroken. Another calamity had come knocking, and once again, Valthorn endured.

Under Crown Prince Damien Harrier’s command, all the rat corpses were gathered beyond the northern gate, forming a grotesque monument of death. The mound, thick with blood, fur, and gleaming black armor, towered so ...

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