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... pressed tight to the earth in silence—no clink of loose armor, no stray coughs, no whispered prayers. Only the soft, almost ghostly sound of leather and breath and the brittle tension of men walking toward blood. In the black of a moonless night, they became shadows of themselves.
He rode behind them, as was his way—not leading the spearpoint, but haunting it. Watching. Feeling the rhythm of the line, the shudder of nerves hiding under hardened faces. His horse’s hooves had been wrapped ...
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