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By your will, the flickering candle-flame survives both the mid-autumn wind and the creeping midnight fog. When the brigand's daughter wakes upon the cold, damp stone the following morning, the glow of warm candle light gives answer to her desperate prayer. She runs out from the shrine, laughter ringing out like a well-made offering.
Earthward. The forest grows lush. Frost-moths flutter between moss-draped branches. Threadbare tents stoop beneath a crown of leaves, circling the remnants of a long-abandoned cooking fire.
