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... r skin until it bled.
Lucian's Grimoire fluttered again the next morning, long after the others had begun exploring the halls. Its pages were warm. Not glowing, not urgent—expectant. A low hum traced through the echochords in its binding, as though it were remembering something it had never seen.
He followed it down a long corridor of shattered glass and snow-dusted carpet, past a half-frozen mirror that reflected no one and a staircase that ended in mist.
Eventually, the ...
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