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He knew the signs. The rhythms. The hollow eyes and flickering, instinctive violence. The lack of shape to their strategies, the hunger carved into their mana signatures. Even the cunning ones left traces—feral architecture, parasitic growths, the weightless momentum of something that never considered its own death.
Ashring had none of that.
And the Sovereign... she had died like someone who believed she was going to win.
That stayed with him.
one just outsi ...
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