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... She kissed me like a woman who'd waited a thousand years to be touched again.
The shrine pulsed with golden light.
Not the divine kind—the alive kind. Warm, breathless, holy in a way no prayer could describe. I knelt before the Matron's statue, holding the final Devotion: a carved flower, its petals etched with old names.
I pressed it into the hollow at her feet.
The air thickened.
A hum vibrated through the stone as vines burst into bloom, lanterns flare ...
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