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Rationing out the precious gunpowder so you don't waste it all—or blow yourself up—you craft an improvised explosive while everyone else gets clear. You're already running away when the fireball explodes, turning the whole world red. Burning wasps fall like hail; when you look back, infected nomads stumble, burning, along the grassy slope. The swarm is in full retreat.

You've used up the last of your ammunition, but at least it was impressive.

"By the Icons, what were those horrible things?" Alexius asks, shielding his eyes from the fire with his hand.

Neither Therko nor Vecla have seen such horrors before.

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