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... r snowfall or under a gentle rain. This silence was thick—ancient, unmoving. A place where time had long stopped bothering to tick.
Deep beneath the surface of a forgotten mountain, buried under centuries of moss and stone, a single egg rested in the shadows. Its shell was dark crimson, faintly translucent, with veins of glowing gold threading like cracks of molten fire beneath its surface.
Inside, I—Darian Flamehart—dreamed.
But not the dreams of a child yet to be born. ...
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