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... /p>

Raen stood at the edge of a quiet fold in the Threadrift. Here, the threads were soft—like gossamer wind curling through forgotten thoughts. No screams. No echoes. No bones.

Only silence.

And silence, in this realm, was sacred.

He collapsed beside a fountain made of melted time. The water glowed pale blue, spinning in lazy spirals against gravity. It sang softly—half lullaby, half eulogy. Raen dipped his hand in.

Warm.

For the first time since falli ...

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