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...

Where the remnants of calamity clung like dust to faded weavings of existence.

A depraved soul was moving.

Silently.

Relentlessly.

Usurping the weavings of the last Mawbearers that Aetheron had left scattered and half-finished.

Discarded pieces. Incomplete beings. Flawed Thrones.

The soul devoured them all.

With cold precision and ruthless patience, the soul moved through them, consuming what others had failed to understand.

...

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