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... sty iron. It had never been meant to keep anything out—only to give the illusion of privacy to a dying boy no one cared about.
Alex kicked it open.
The thin wood exploded outward in splinters. Dawn light—gray, cold, wet—flooded the hut. Three figures stood in the mud just beyond the threshold.
Gorran was in front. Broad-shouldered, thick-necked, the kind of man who looked strong until you saw how soft his belly had become from too much stolen rice wine. His hair was greas ...
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