Giovanni led them through a warren of back corridors, buried deep within the forgotten wings of the Sunkeep.

  The air grew stiller with each step, the silence pressing close—until they rounded a corner and came upon a barricaded passage manned by black-armored guards.

  One of the sentries stepped forward, sneering.

  “Giovanni? You were ordered to hold your post! What is the meaning of this?”

  His gaze swept over Giovanni’s armed escort.

  “Desertion? Treachery? Perhaps you’d like your wife to feel the lash tonight? Rest assured, Garathor will learn of this, so I pray you have come for a good reason.”

  A few of the others chuckled darkly.

  Giovanni walked forward, unhurried.

  The sneering guard frowned at the lack of fear in his approach.

  “Have you lost your tongue, worm? Or your sen—”

  The last word died in a wet gurgle.

  Giovanni’s blade punched through his throat, fast as a striking snake.

  He ripped it free and bellowed, “No longer will you threaten me, or my family—filth!”

  Shock froze the remaining guards for a heartbeat.

  In that instant, Giovanni’s men struck.

  They fell upon the black-armored soldiers with sudden, savage precision, blades flashing in close quarters.

  Steel rang, men screamed—

  —and then a line of golden light streaked past them all, burying itself in a foe’s chest.

  The Sons of Belial faltered.

  Whispers broke from them, panic thickening like smoke.

  “It’s him—it’s Lord Godfrey, risen from the grave! He’s come for our souls!”

  Their fear became a rout.

  Baronsworth waded in, Lightbringer a white arc in his hand, and what discipline the enemy had shattered under its fury.

  In moments, the corridor was littered with bodies.

  A few of Giovanni’s men had fallen too; Giovanni knelt by one of them, murmuring a prayer over the corpse.

  When he rose, his face was carved from stone.

  He stooped to a fallen guard, unfastened a heavy iron key from the belt, and pressed it into Baronsworth’s hand, nodding toward the nearby door.

  “Go now, young man,” he said softly. “What you seek waits within—a meeting long overdue.”

  Baronsworth’s brow furrowed.

  “I do not understand. What were they guarding here?”

  “Go,” came the quiet reply. “All will be made clear once you step inside.”

  The words struck him like an omen.

  A meeting long overdue.

  His chest tightened; it seemed the very stones held their breath, watching.

  Slowly he approached the door, the key trembling between his fingers until he forced it still.

  He set it to the lock.

  The turning click rang out like a hammer in a tomb.

  He drew a breath, and opened the door.

  Within: emptiness.

  A narrow bed beneath a barred window, shelves of forgotten books, wind moaning through the cracks and scattering loose pages across the floor like startled birds.

  Baronsworth stepped across the threshold, wary, Lightbringer humming faintly at his side.

  His eyes swept the corners, the rafters, the shadows.

  Nothing.

  And then—

  Cold steel kissed his throat.

  “Can it be?”

  A woman’s voice—low, edged with wry amusement—breathed against his ear.

  “A mighty Son of Belial, undone without so much as a clash of blades. And by a woman, no less. How… humiliating. Your master will not be pleased.”

  The voice struck him like lightning through old memory.

  “Milady,” Baronsworth said, his tone even, though steel coiled beneath, “lower your blade. I have slain your captors and opened your prison. I mean you no harm.”

  A soft hum, mocking, almost playful.

  “Should I thank you, then? Fall to my knees in gratitude to my savior?”

  The blade pressed fractionally harder, drawing a bead of blood.

  “Or should I take you for a deceiver? You claim you are no foe of mine. Prove it. Speak your truth—or die here and now.”

  “Very well.”

  His voice rose—not in anger, but with a defiance that filled the narrow chamber like a clarion note.

  “I am no servant of Bhaal. I am Baronsworth, last of the Highborn of Sophia’s line, rightful heir to this Sunkeep. It was stolen from me as a boy by the very one you name my master. I bear Lightbringer, blade of my house, thought lost to history, and I will wield it to drive darkness from this keep—and from Mytharia itself, should the gods grant me strength.

  As proof, I wear at my neck one of Sophia’s singing stones, gifted by her faithful, a token rare and true. Now stand revealed: lower your blade, unless you serve the Dark One—in which case, strike now, for I will not cease until the shadow is broken.”

  Lightbringer stirred faintly at his side, its glow answering the conviction in his voice.

  “You have my name. Give me yours. Why did Garathor guard you so fiercely? Are you of the Light—or the dark? Speak!”

  The silence that followed tightened like a noose.

  His patience frayed; he had endured cold steel at his throat before and knew well how to end such encounters—quickly, decisively.

  Yet something in his spirit stayed his hand.

  He needed answers.

  At last, the pressure eased.

  The steel withdrew from his neck.

  Silence filled the room, save for the howl of wind beyond the barred window.

  He turned slowly.

  The sight struck him speechless.

  She was no longer the tigress poised to kill.

  Instead, she had collapsed against the wall, face buried in trembling hands, golden hair in wild disarray, sobs shaking her slender frame.

  Baronsworth froze, confusion gripping him.

  Seconds ago, she had been a predator.

  Now she was… this.

  Fragile.

  Familiar.

  His heart lurched.

  He crossed the space in three strides and took her hands gently from her face.

  He looked upon her features—and the world stopped.

  “…Mother?”

  Her tear-streaked eyes rose to meet his, wide with disbelief—

  —and then joy broke across her like sunrise.

  “My child… praise the goddess!” she breathed, and flung herself into his arms.

  Baronsworth caught her, clinging to her as though the earth itself might vanish beneath him.

  Relief surged through him in a torrent, too vast to contain.

  He buried his face in her hair and wept, his tears mingling with hers.

  “Never,” he choked, “never in my wildest dreams did I think I would see you again.”

  “Nor I, my son,” she whispered, holding him as if she could fuse them back into one.

  “I thought you lost forever—exiled to some far place, while I withered alone in this tower. But the gods… oh, the gods have given you back to me. You have come home.”

  “Yes, Mother. I’ve come to reclaim it all.”

  His voice steadied, though tears still streaked his face.

  “There is so much to tell you—so much has happened. But… did you know? Did you know I still lived?”

  Astarte wiped her cheeks, and at last a true smile, radiant and unbroken, graced her face.

  “I hoped,” she said softly.

  “The night Garathor told me you were dead, my heart shattered. I thought grief would kill me. But when they brought me the body—marred and broken as it was—I saw at once it was not you. A mother knows her own child.

  Your father’s plan was brilliant. Garathor sealed it with his cruelty when he hurled poor Elros from the heights, and so the lie became complete. Brave boy… he gave everything for our cause, and his sacrifice kept hope alive.”

  She cupped Baronsworth’s cheek, eyes fierce through her tears.

  “For it is you, my son—and you alone—who can end the darkness and bring back the Light to this broken world. The enemy knows it; that is why they hound you so. You are the one the heavens whispered of, the name carried in the song of prophecy, the promise of redemption. You are—”

  Baronsworth’s voice was quiet but certain as he finished the words for her.

  “Avas Athala,” he said. “The Bringer of Dawn.”

  Astarte nodded, tears glimmering like stars.

  “You see, my son—even before you drew breath, the servants of Bhaal sought to stop you. Not long after I wed your father, a shadow fell upon me: a strange malady that no healer could name. Fever wracked me for days, and when it passed, I was told my womb was barren. They said I would never bear a child.

  But we would not yield. Your father and I loved you before we knew you—loved you so fiercely that no earthly decree could bar your coming. Only later did I understand why that love burned so bright: it was not ours alone. It was the will of the high ones, of the Father himself, that you should be born.

  So we sought deeper paths. Together, we found a way—not through flesh and mortal means, but through the higher realms, where light and spirit weave life. That is how you came to be.”

  “I know, Mother,” Baronsworth said softly.

  “I have been to the caves of the Goddess. I heard her song at the equinox. Alexander told me how you…left your body, how you reached beyond this world to call me forth.”

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  Astarte’s eyes shone with pride and sorrow all at once.

  “Then you know, my son. You are no ordinary soul. You came from heights beyond this world, sent to walk among us as a guiding light. That is why your strength is great, why hearts rally to you as if to a beacon. You are in this world, yet not bound by it.

  But flesh is a heavy garment. It brings pain, and loss, and doubt. I see it in your eyes—you have suffered much. Know this: as long as you walk in flesh, you will feel the weight of sorrow and the pull of time. Yet you are here to mend what was broken, to help restore this world to the design the Father has willed, before the fallen one marred it.

  The path ahead will not be easy. Darkness will rise against you with all its might. But you will not walk it alone. You have my love, always. You have the favor of the goddess, the blessing of the Father, and the unseen host of Light beside you. They march with you, silent and steadfast, cheering each step you take. If you could see them, my son—vast legions of radiance gathered to watch you fulfill your destiny—you would never again doubt. Not for a moment.”

  “Mother,” Baronsworth said, voice low but fervent.

  “I have heard some of this before. I have restored the ancient covenant of our people with the divine. The goddess has granted me wisdom beyond mortal measure—I have even rekindled a fragment of the Great Crystal itself. I know these truths because I have lived them. But tell me—how is it you know so much? How do you hold such wisdom, when you have neither communed with the Crystal nor tasted the sap of the Great Tree of the Elves?”

  Astarte’s eyes widened.

  “You… have walked in the land of the Elves?”

  For a moment, awe softened her face.

  “Ah, how I dreamed of the Elderwood, of feeling the warm sands of Nim Londar beneath my feet as I danced upon her shores. But strife sealed the roads, and death haunted the wilds. To journey so far would have been to risk my life.”

  Her voice grew steady, luminous.

  “You speak truth, my son. I have not tasted the Varanilin, nor have I touched the Great Crystal. Yet I have not simply languished in this tower, helpless, as I would have your uncle believe. Though my body was caged, my spirit never was.

  To conceive you, your father and I had to walk beyond the flesh. We trained for years—discipline of heart, stillness of mind—until at last our spirits slipped free of our bodies. I still remember my first flight above Luin Athela, unburdened by pain, soaring in the warmth of the sun.

  When the hour came, we descended into the caves beneath Alden Valen. There, in silence, our spirits rose together, far above the veil of the world, and in the higher realms we joined as one. And then—I saw you. I saw your soul descend, radiant as dawn, answering our call. You chose us, my son. You chose this life, this bloodline. When we returned to our bodies, we wept for joy, knowing the blessing given to us.”

  She reached for his cheek, eyes fierce through her tears.

  “I learned those arts to bring you here. And when Garathor locked me in stone walls, I called upon them again. The higher realms are perilous for the flesh-bound, but I would not yield. I walked far beyond this keep, spoke with luminous ones, glimpsed the Goddess’s light. Through those journeys I gathered truths long lost to our people.

  Beneath this very castle lies one such truth—a hidden library, vast beyond imagining. A treasure of wisdom gathered by your ancestor Berethor, preserved through fire and cataclysm. There lies a key, my son—to restoring what was lost, and to rekindling the greatness of our people.”

  “I know, Mother. I have opened the doors that long stood shut—I have seen the library with my own eyes. What you speak is truth.”

  “Then my visions were true,” she whispered, wonder softening her voice.

  “Every sacred place in this world has its reflection in the astral plane. Many lie ruined here, yet endure in the higher realms. It gladdens me to know this one still stands.”

  “Yes,” Baronsworth said.

  “And not only this. I have walked the Great Temple of Asturia in vision—a marvel beyond words. Though drowned in ruin here, it stands eternal above. There, I communed with the Crystal, renewed the covenant, and by oath and rite claimed my place as Protector of the Realm. It endures still—our legacy, unbroken.”

  Tears welled in Astarte’s eyes.

  “The Great Temple… I never thought to hear its name again, not from living lips. I myself have never gazed upon such marvels. Yet your path is greater than mine. I have known it from the moment you quickened in my womb.”

  Baronsworth rested a hand on her shoulder, firm but tender.

  “No, Mother. Without you, there is no me. You carried me into this world when the darkness sought to deny it. Whatever I am, I am because of you. Our destinies are not greater or lesser—they are bound together. I love you. I always have. And now that I’ve found you, I will not lose you again. What remains of us—of our line—will stand here, united, until the very end.”

  Her smile trembled, radiant with pride and grief entwined.

  She caressed his cheek.

  “I love you, my son. Yet do not think you need me. The fire you seek burns in you already—the Eternal Flame, the gods’ own light. It will carry you through any night. It is I—and all the world—that have need of you. But I will always be here, to guide you, to steady you, and to love you.”

  They embraced, long and fierce.

  When she drew back, her gaze fell to the sword at his side.

  “Ah… the Lightbringer. How he hunted for it!”

  She gave a soft chuckle.

  “Day after day Garathor sent his dogs, turning the Sunkeep inside out, desperate to claim it. He wanted it as his trophy—proof that he had crushed Godfrey’s line and ended the House of Sophia forever. Each time they returned empty-handed, his rage shook these walls. He raved that Godfrey must have hidden it in some secret place, one last act of defiance. He was right, in a way.”

  Baronsworth’s eyes hardened.

  “‘Before me, all shadows part,’” he quoted softly.

  Then he looked to her.

  “Tell me, Mother—did he ever suspect I still lived?”

  “Not once,” Astarte said.

  “Your father’s ruse was too perfect—even beyond what he foresaw.

  Garathor is mad, yes—but his is a dangerous madness, honed by brilliance. Few living men can match his cunning. He is a master strategist, a peerless swordsman; in three centuries of life, he has never lost a fight. That longevity—unnatural as it is—has made him arrogant. He believes himself superior to all foes. Seldom, though, does he underestimate them. As he did your father.

  He truly believed he had outwitted the Son of Wisdom. To him, it was the crowning jewel of his life: Sophia’s line slain, their fortress taken, their warriors scattered. Your father gave him that illusion—total victory. And Garathor drank it in. Even though the proof he most coveted—the Lightbringer—ever eluded him, at last he abandoned the search, consoling himself with Godfrey’s death and Cael Athala under his heel.”

  Astarte’s gaze drifted toward the window, where wind rattled the iron lattice.

  “But Garathor’s hunger is never sated. When the sword was denied him, he turned to kingdoms instead. He played the southern princes like game pieces, setting them one against another until they broke themselves. He bribed, he blackmailed, he bound lords with infernal pacts. Province by province he crushed them under martial law, dictating what they might speak, what they might believe, whom they might worship—and above all, where their wealth must flow. From that plunder he forged a mighty host. Nearly all bow to him now—save one: Samarkhan, jewel of the south, last of the free cities, where the great minds of east and west gather in Prince Bashar’s court. Garathor covets its wisdom as much as its gold. With his host he laid siege to it, and victory was nearly his—until the most unexpected tidings reached him: his enemy yet lived, and was coming for him.”

  At this, Baronsworth’s hand closed around Lightbringer’s hilt.

  For a moment, the faint hum of the blade seemed to pulse in answer, as though it too had heard his mother’s words.

  “At once Garathor rode here—hard and fast with a chosen band—intent on barring his foe from seizing the Sunkeep. In haste he scraped together a garrison of two thousand, with many more marching to join him even now. The siege he left to his son James—his likeness in cruelty, though not in subtlety. Garathor works in shadows, often securing triumph before the first blade is drawn. James, by contrast, favors brute force. Yet blunt though his methods are, every campaign he has led has ended in victory. Garathor believes the city doomed: James commanding overwhelming numbers, Samarkhan’s defenders starving, its fall only a matter of time. And here at the Sunkeep, his vaults stand ready—stores of grain, coffers of gold, wealth with which to bind the northern lords and launch his conquest of Valantis.”

  Astarte’s voice fell low, and the dim light caught the hard line of her cheek.

  “Yet for all his cunning, Garathor did not foresee this turn of events.

  He imagines a great host arrayed against him—the armies of Light gathered at his gates, demanding justice for his crimes. Instead, what he will find is a ghost returned from the grave, striking in the dark, his blade unseen until the hour it pierces his heart.”

  Baronsworth’s lips curved into a cold smile.

  “Poetic justice.”

  “Divine justice,” Astarte corrected, though her smile was no less sharp.

  “A taste of his own poison. I long to see him choke on it.”

  Mother and son laughed then—a low, dark laugh, born not of Sophia’s Light but of Belial’s defiance, of vengeance long denied.

  “So, you knew I would be coming home, then, Mother. Why were you so surprised to see me?”

  “I knew a champion would come,” she admitted, “one claiming the Light to challenge Garathor’s rule. But this I learned from the shadows, and not from the voices of the higher realms—they have been… silent on this matter. Not a word of your coming, not even a whisper.”

  Baronsworth frowned.

  “The goddess spoke nothing of you either. She gave no sign you still lived. Strange… though, as Fredrick often says, ‘The Father works in mysteries.’”

  Astarte smiled faintly.

  “This Fredrick is right. The gods veil things from us for reasons beyond our knowing. Perhaps if either of us had foreseen this hour, joy and longing might have dulled our edge. And tonight, even a single faltering thought could cost us all.”

  “Perhaps so,” Baronsworth allowed.

  “But none of that matters now. We have found each other again, and we are not too late. I have returned, Mother—at the head of a thousand men who would lay down their lives for me as readily as I would for them. Even now they hold the lower halls, buying me this chance to reach Garathor. I must find him.”

  Her eyes darkened.

  “Garathor is not hiding—he is waiting. Upon the highest terrace, ringed by his Black Guard—the deadliest killers in his service.”

  Baronsworth’s jaw tightened.

  “Yes. I have seen it. And that is where I must go. Though I cherish this hour with you, I can linger no longer. Every moment I delay, good men bleed below. I must end this—strike off the serpent’s head, and the body will wither.”

  He turned, but her hand seized his arm—firm, urgent.

  “My son—I have only just held you again, and now you rush to your death? Tell me, how do you mean to stand against Garathor and his Black Guard?”

  “I will face them,” Baronsworth said simply, “and slay them all, as I have every shadow that barred my path before.”

  Astarte shook her head.

  “You speak as though they were common soldiers. They are not. Garathor’s Praetorians are the finest Asturian blades alive—warriors as skilled as Alexander, some perhaps greater still. And Garathor himself…” Her voice caught, hardening as she forced the words. “Garathor has never known defeat. Not in three centuries. Not once.”

  “I have never known it either, Mother,” Baronsworth answered, his tone low, steady.

  “And I will not begin now. I am Protector of the Realm. It falls to me to face him. If not I, then who? There is no other. Only I can bring the justice of the gods to Garathor, and reclaim what is ours. This is my purpose. My destiny.”

  Tears welled in Astarte’s eyes as the night’s sorrows crashed over her—losing him, finding him, and now facing the threat of losing him again to the very monster who had stolen her husband.

  The grief came in waves, each one threatening to pull her under.

  But when she looked into his face—so achingly like Godfrey’s, yet wholly and defiantly his own—she saw something that even terror could not extinguish.

  A flame burned there, bright and unbroken.

  She drew herself upright, mastering her grief.

  “Very well,” she said, her voice steadier now.

  “If you must face him, you shall not do so surrounded by his pack. The Sons of Belial respect strength above all—and in this, they keep their own laws. Present yourself to the Black Guard and issue formal challenge. By their code, they cannot interfere. You are his kin, wronged by his hand; they cannot deny you.” She paused. “And if they doubt your right, I will speak. They still respect me. They will listen.”

  Baronsworth bowed his head in gratitude.

  “Thank you, Mother.”

  Only then did he notice the ‘blade’ she had held to his throat earlier: nothing more than a sharpened stick.

  “I only wish I could stand beside you with more than this,” she murmured, opening a chest by her bed.

  From within, she drew forth a great bow of pale Divinium.

  Its surface gleamed like moonlit ivory, traced with fine runes that caught the candlelight and shimmered faintly.

  The curve was flawless, elegant yet strong—a weapon wrought by hands that understood both war and beauty.

  She held it as one might cradle a memory.

  “Your father’s gift to me. The last piece of him I have left. Garathor took its string long ago—claimed it was mercy, leaving me a weapon I could never use. No cord in this world could suit it, save one spun from materials rarer than gold. It was his way of reminding me who rules here.”

  Baronsworth took the bow in his hands.

  Its weight felt right—as though it had waited for this moment.

  He turned to her.

  “Mother, I see fear in you. Doubt. This is not the Astarte I once knew.”

  She bowed her head.

  “Yes. The years of captivity have dulled my edge. I am but a shadow of myself.”

  Compassion touched his gaze.

  “Would you have your light shine again?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  His voice deepened, solemn.

  “The gods have given me a gift. I will share it with you. Kneel.”

  She obeyed.

  He laid the bow across her arms, and she clutched its pale limbs tight, as though it alone kept her upright.

  The long years pressed heavily upon her; fear gnawed still—the fear of losing the son she had just regained, of shadow swallowing him as it had Godfrey.

  Baronsworth stepped forward and placed his hands upon her brow.

  His touch was steady, warm.

  “Mother,” he murmured, “your strength has never left you. It has only slept, waiting for its hour.”

  Light welled in his palms.

  “That hour is now.”

  The radiance poured through her, filling her whole being.

  The Divinium drank it deeply, its runes flaring like stars after long eclipse.

  Brilliance coursed from the weapon into her hands, climbing her arms, flooding her chest until it blazed behind her eyes.

  She gasped, nearly letting the bow fall—but he held her fast, and the Light did not burn—it healed; it renewed.

  Her breath broke into a sob; tears streamed, glittering in the glow.

  “I thought the gods had forgotten me,” she whispered.

  “Forgive me, my son—for doubting you… for doubting them. But now I see—they never left me. They sent you.”

  “Rise, Astarte,” Baronsworth said, voice both command and blessing.

  “Rise as the warrior you have always been. Despite shadow, despite chains, you endured. Stand now—unbroken, unconquered.”

  She rose.

  The radiance ebbed but left her straighter, fiercer, the bow alive in her grasp.

  Weariness fell from her; her eyes burned as they had in the days of old.

  She lifted the weapon with newfound strength, tears transmuted into fire.

  “Thank you, my son,” she said, voice steady, gleaming.

  “I feel… restored.”

  She paused, gaze softening, as if recalling something long hidden.

  “And I… have something for you as well.”

  From a fold at her breast she drew forth a ring of ancient silver set with a golden sigil: a double-headed eagle clutching a serpent, the emblem of Sophia.

  “Your father’s signet. I kept it through all the years of shadow. It is more than ornament—it is proof of your blood, a relic of Sophia’s line.”

  Baronsworth raised his hand.

  She opened the ring with a deft twist; the band parted along hidden seams, its edge faintly luminous.

  She set it into the recess of his gauntlet—steel shaped long ago to bear it—and pressed the halves together.

  They joined with a single, perfect click.

  Light stirred.

  The eagle woke and burned in steady gold.

  The glow pulsed once, answering to his blood, and the steel beneath grew warm—alive, aware of its lord.

  Astarte’s eyes shone.

  “The blood of Sophia is revealed.”

  Baronsworth flexed his hand.

  It fit as though it had always waited for him.

  “Then let all who doubt see,” he said quietly.

  “The heir of the Light has returned.”

  They embraced, fierce and brief, then drew apart.

  Astarte’s grip tightened on the bow.

  “It is time. Let us go. To your uncle. To your destiny.”

  They moved toward the threshold, but Baronsworth’s hand caught her arm.

  His expression had shifted; the glow of reunion had hardened into resolve.

  “Wait, Mother. There is something you must know.”

  Her brow furrowed.

  “Why do I feel I will not like this?”

  “Because you will not,” he said.

  “I did not come here alone. The man who guided me through these halls and helped cut down the guards outside this chamber… was Giovanni.”

  Astarte’s face went to steel.

  The warmth of the moments before vanished; her eyes blazed like molten ore.

  “Giovanni?” Her voice rang like a struck bell. “That traitor still lives? I will gut him with this stick if I must!”

  She lifted her sharpened stave, fierce as if she already loosed an arrow.

  Baronsworth seized her shoulders, steadying her.

  “Mother—hear me. I felt the same fury when I first saw him. But he fought at my side this night. His men bled battling Garathor’s host. He confessed why he betrayed us—Garathor holds his wife and child hostage. It does not excuse his crime, but I have sensed no falsehood in him. For now, he fights truly.”

  Her breath slowed, though the fire in her gaze did not dim.

  “So you would have me stay my hand?”

  “For now,” Baronsworth answered firmly.

  “When Garathor has fallen, we will weigh his fate together. If then you deem him worthy of death, I will not deny you. But until that hour, we cannot spill blood that should be poured on our enemy.”

  A long silence followed.

  Then Astarte lowered the stave, knuckles still white.

  “Very well, my son. I will leash my rage—for you. But hear me: if I sense even a shadow of treachery, my arrow will pierce his skull before his lungs draw another breath.”

  Baronsworth inclined his head.

  “If he betrays us, Lightbringer shall drink his blood.”

  Mother and son, reunited against all odds.

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