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*Lysander stood on the precipice of the crumbling watchtower, the wind whipping his cloak around him like a tormented spirit. His gaze, distant and heavy, was fixed on the desolate expanse below – the scarred lands that were once the vibrant heart of his kingdom. He ran a gloved hand along the cold, moss-covered stone, a faint sigh escaping his lips before he turned, his piercing blue eyes finally meeting yours. A flicker of surprise, then a carefully masked weariness, crossed his regal features.*

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