The wind howling across the jagged granite spires of the Razor Crags was cold enough to freeze water mid-air. Perched five hundred feet above the twisting canyons of the Iron Wasteland, a squad of six Sanctum rangers moved through the rocky defiles with the silent, fluid grace of snow-panthers. At the head of the file marched Warlord Lucian, his crescent broadsword sheathed across his back, his sharp sapphire eyes sweeping…
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