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"Ah... I never thought soap could smell this nice," murmured a boy, no more than seventeen or eighteen, his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, hands slick with the remnants of cooled soap mix. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—not one of amusement, but of quiet wonder. "Even the air feels good."

His name was Boris—a simple, sturdy name, common among the folk of Ginip. He had never known comfort or luxury—only empty stomachs, patched clothing, and the unspoken duty of prov ...

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