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Gold-threaded curtains rippled in the artificial breeze, musicians played high-tempo hymns of conquest, and perfumed nobles lounged across divans, gorging on peeled fruit and vintage liquor.
It was the kind of extravagance only the cruel could afford—one built on chains, silence, and the broken backs of the forgotten.
At the center of it all sat Clavacis III, draped in royal indigo robes trimmed with living silk that pulsed faintly with energy.
His bloated fingers, ...
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