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... only my sensory roots buried just beneath the soil like antennae.

My breath, if it could still be called that slowed. The territory was listening.

The ash thickened.

The enemy? It drifted from the canopy, sifted between the air like slow-motion embers. Not a fire. Not yet.

But the heat in the soil told a different story. It was soaking into the ground. Spreading. Cooking the topsoil alive, terraforming the soil I called home.

An intrusion. No, an invasion. ...

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