Bearclaw Valley Far across the blue waters

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his jaw worked once, tight, a swallow that scraped going down. the boy needed this — the seeing, the remembering, even if it hurt like hell. smoke stayed where he was, a dark anchor at the edge of the ruins, eyes never leaving tzar’s back.

go on, he murmured, barely more than breath.

then silence again. smoke held the valley behind him, watching the ghosts gather around the kid and making damn sure none of them reached out with teeth.

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