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... arty had made camp, golden and soft, cutting through the morning fog like butter.

Birds chirped lazily in the distance.

Someone yawned.

Someone else cursed while stretching.

And Gray...?

He stood by the edge of the hill, sharpening his rapier, staring quietly into the blade, not for its shine, but for the faint reflection staring back at him.

His eyes.

Still the same shape, still the same dull gray.

But now...

There were tho ...

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