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... he fires they lit burned long past noon.

Even as the sun stood highest in the sky, the smoke still bled upward in thick black ribbons, trailing toward the heavens like accusations.

Now all that remained was ash; and the silence of the dead.

Conchobar mac Murchadha stood among the cinders, a king with a sword in hand and no war left to fight. He did not speak. He did not weep. But his knuckles were white around the hilt, and his breath came in slow, shakin ...

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