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... dia’s broken gates, staining the camp an autumn orange that made every torn banner look briefly like dying leaves. Lyan paused on a rise of rubble that used to be the guard-house parapet, hands braced on his knees, and let the whole vista soak into his bones. Broken walls, tents pitched in wild angles, cook-fires smoking where marble fountains had once sprayed scented water. The hush was uncanny. He could still feel where cannon-runed ballista bolts had screamed over this exact spot two nights a ...

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