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... t upon the obsidian throne, bored.
Ruler of a silent world.
Not the peaceful kind of silence.
The dead kind.
The kind that rots the soul.
The sort that takes root deep inside when dreams lie dead behind you.
Far beneath my feet spread the Grand Abyss Hall, hollowed out of black stone and ancient bones. Mountains could not match the girth of its towering columns, each holding up a roof painted with star patterns. Long ago, shouts filled this space - ...
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