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... ..deep, war-throated, rippling through twisted oak groves and lichen-quilted stone. Flocks of mountain birds burst skyward as the call scattered across the treeline.
The Verakhs and the Black Tree Tribe were already awake when the horn sounded. They had been awake for hours...ghosts beneath branches and bracken, war paint drying on scarred skin, blades oiled and bound, breaths quiet as wind through leaves.
The Warg Riders waited.
They always waited.
Mounted thunde ...
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