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... did not walk so much as arrive, their massive, many-jointed legs folding and unfolding in rhythms too old for footsteps. Their hides shimmered with the faint wetness of mourning—not tears, but condensation, as if grief itself had condensed along their flanks.
Harbinger stood at the chamber’s threshold, still raw with glyph-light from the ritual. The marks on her skin pulsed faintly, like living punctuation. She did not speak; she simply breathed, and the breath seemed enough to guide the ...
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