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... a habit. The air reeked of burnt wood, rotten sap, and something metallic that could be magical—or just my imagination trying to dramatize. Every breath felt like I was inhaling soot. I stepped over soaked soil, dead leaves, and shattered branches, like the forest had turned into a cemetery around me. Everything there wanted to swallow me.
My body trembled, but my hand still held the pickaxe tight. The fingers, rigid, ached as if carved from bone. I could barely feel my right arm. My lef ...
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