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I am Running Wind Lorca, orphaned grouse of Ilia. Not long ago I had eggs of my own. One hatched alive. Week-old Little Wing has just learned to fly. She's not near grand at it. It is Dawn of Blue Light, usually so bright you can't see the sun. Not this time. Not a streak of light could be seen without roaring thunder close by. Fox tracks lead into the darkest part of the forest. A bush ruffles. A fox pounces out, snarling. It must be here for Little Wing.
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