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... ves himself the hero.

Kaelen remembered the smell of wine first.

It clung to his sheets—sour, stale, a familiar stench from a lifetime of drowning his failures. But now it made him sick. He sat up, sweating and shaking, his fingers scrabbling at his unbroken chest. Moonlight streamed through the arched windows, casting silver streaks over paintings of wheat and rivers—the symbols of a Caldris that had not yet burned.

"This is a dream," he croaked. "Another trick of the Vo ...

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