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... in the dirt, their long, tendril-like limbs coiled and spasming in slow death. Jian stood over them, panting, his hands slick with gore—some of it black, some of it gold.

The graylings didn’t scream when they died. They made this wet, horrible clicking sound that echoed too much in his ears. Even now, with their bodies going limp, the memory of that sound lingered in the back of his throat like bile.

He stumbled toward a crooked tree and slumped down beside its gnarled trunk. His ...

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