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... was the count Krug kept on the Elder Tree. Forty-five notches carved into the rot-wood, marking the time since they had claimed the swamp.
In the desert, forty-five days would have been a lifetime of hunger. Here, it was a season of fat.
Krug ran his hand along the wall of the Cistern. It wasn’t just packed mud anymore. It was lined with grey, sun-baked bricks—clay dug from the deep pits, mixed with straw and beetle-shell dust, fired in the central hearth until it rang like stone ...
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