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... ggled to echo, Aurora worked.

Not with grace. Not with mercy. But with a hunger that scared even the rats from the walls.

She knelt over the limp, twitching body of Irene—the once-proud Prime now stripped of all titles, all armor, and nearly all humanity. Blood painted Aurora’s fingers to the wrists, thick and sticky like hot tar. Bits of tissue clung to her gloves, still pulsing faintly with rejected life.

The dungeon reeked—burnt nerves, bile, and ancient stone saturate ...

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