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... ong Britannia's western frontier. The place stank of boiled cabbage, wet wool, and secrets—a perfect breeding ground for lies, deals, and the kind of shadows the world dared not name. The locals called it The Cracked Pike, a low-slung, timber-laced den that had seen better centuries. Tonight, it played host to wolves.

Five men sat in the back corner, their cloaks heavy with the stench of the road. They didn't speak much—just exchanged glances and silent nods. They were spies, but not the ...

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