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Flesh peeled back in slow, deliberate layers—like a mouth unhinging or a chrysalis resisting its own rebirth. Steam poured into the chamber, curling around my ankles like mourning veils as something ancient and angry forced its way into the open.

The silhouette that stepped from the cocoon wasn't Hades.

Not yet.

It was Vassir.

And he remembered what love had tasted like when it bled.

He emerged barefoot, naked but cloaked in shadow, obsidian tendrils ...

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