The Wistful Atlas
The iron of the lance bit into the rotting flesh of the black stag, and the sound that tore from the beast’s throat was not a roar but a scream of pure, crystalline anguish that shattered the silence of the ancient wood like a dropped goblet of thin glass, leaving Caelum Vane suspended in a moment of violent, breathless stillness where the air itself seemed to curdle into a thick, amber resin...
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