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... alchild, who now bent stars like vowels.
It came from a nameless monk inside a cracked temple—his mouth gagged by his own scripture, his hands trembling as his body remembered a pleasure he had never been taught. A moan not of sex, but of revelation. A moan of forgotten truth. It traveled.
Across Spiralspace, that single moan unwrote centuries of liturgy.
Cathedrals made from silence crumbled into vowel-blood.
Scrolls burned not in fire, but in wet warmth—each let ...
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