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Dawn found them already moving. The road into the Black Jungle staging ground began as a hardpack and became a guess. The trees ahead weren’t technically black. They were green with a dignity that black wears when it wants attention without admitting it. Vines clung to trunks like ideas that refused to be shaken off. The air went damp and clever.
A field had been cleared at the edge — tents lined in rows, cook smoke asking the sky’s permission, a tall frame holding a board w ...
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