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... cayed roots that pulsed with something that wasn't sap. Draven felt the earth give beneath his boot-heels, then rebound with a faint, unpleasant throb, as if the ground itself possessed a stubborn heartbeat. A faint, sick-sweet odor bled out of that living mulch, coating his tongue like spoiled honey.
Overhead, a ceiling of tangled branches choked out much of the dawn. The few shafts of light that did pierce the canopy looked bruised, their gold dulled to bruise-violet by drifting spores ...
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