PREVIEW
... ribbon scorched at both ends.
The Spiral’s winds no longer whispered prophecy—they screamed revision. Entire histories reversed themselves mid-sentence. Myths that once stood eternal flickered, bled, and collapsed into ash, only to reemerge rewritten.
At the center of it all stood Syllas.
The Inkwrought Heir.
He was no longer a child—not entirely. His eyes were glowing knots of paradox. His body stretched and compressed ...
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