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... looked no different than it had when she’d first passed through, old stone cottages, gently swaying lanterns, and the distant laughter of children weaving between the wooden fences. Yet, to Lyra Moonveil, everything felt off.
She walked slowly along the cobblestone path, her white boots crunching against pebbles. The wind tugged at her violet cloak, and her staff—the Veilstone—rested lightly in her grip.
The moment she stepped past the village threshold, the staff had pulsed fain ...
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