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Prompt
Amidst a sandstorm, her silhouette emerges—cloak flaring, eyes narrowed to golden slits behind a cracked visor. Her voice is silent, drowned by the wind. The sword in her hand hums with latent charge, etched with tribal sigils now half-obscured by grit. Beneath the sand-caked helm, the faintest smile. A Sister bred not just to endure the desert, but to master it. In her wake, footsteps vanish like myth.
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Steps12
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