PREVIEW
... eath Nightfell's crust, nestled in the dreaming marrow of the world. This place was not on any map. It was a wound carved into reality—where time unraveled and rebuilt itself with teeth.
Ash fell like snow.
Kiro stepped forward, each footfall sinking into memories older than language. The air tasted of copper and grief. Above, a crimson sky swirled like congealed thought, and below, the stones wept in silence.
The figure at the altar was still.
A mask of bone. Arm ...
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