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... er trays to mask the raw intent within—just stone, dust, and strategy, a chamber carved deep into the bowels of Branthelm Hall. Its walls pressed close, cold to the touch, smoothed only by age and the faint sheen of firelight, their gray surfaces pocked with time's quiet scars. The air hung heavy with the musty scent of old parchment, its brittle edges curling on the table, mingling with the sharp tang of iron from the sword rack in the corner, where blades gleamed dully, their hilts wrapped in ...

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