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Arryn Zylmar tightened the worn leather strap across her shoulder and drew her small son close beneath the hood of her cloak. The world behind them was smoke and the roar of enemy drums; ahead lay the hush of the enchanted Woods of Elgandor, where silvered trees kept old promises.
Her son slept against her chest, his breath warm and steady, a living answer to every fear. Under the bright, careful eye of the silver moon Arryn let herself walk, each step a quiet pact: protect him, reach the retreat, do not look back.
She whispered an old prayer in the soft, curved language of her people, for safe paths, for closed ears and soft feet, and the moon, cool as coin light, listened as they vanished into the green shadow of the wood.
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