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... d like the lament of extinct worlds.
Darius stood at the edge of the abyss—his cloak of woven script trailing behind him like severed fate-threads—gazing upon the Cathedral of Unmaking. It was not built, but breathed into being, older than the language of gods, rising like a tumor from unreconciled history.
Its doors were not doors, but frozen decisions.
And waiting at its entrance, barefoot on fractured stone, was Kaela—eyes burning with ...
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