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... tracing meaning in patterns too ancient for human tongues. There was a softness to his expression—gone the razor attention of strategist, replaced by something like wistful recognition. It lasted a heartbeat, then tucked itself behind his habitual calm.

With only three discs left, the hymn grew quieter, as though conserving breath for its final refrain. Sylvanna felt sweat cooling at her temples. The air up here was thin and tasted faintly of crushed mint. If she closed her eyes—only for ...

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