The Wistful Cipher
The dust in the Vault of Echoes is not gray but a fine, swirling snow of gold, and you are breathing it in, tasting the metallic tang of an age long buried under the roots of the world. Your lantern is dying, its flame a fragile blue whisper against the crushing darkness that presses against the glass like a living thing, hungry for the light you refuse to let it consume. You are Edward...
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