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... rove Shrine, beneath chambers carved by the prayers of generations, Saintess Myria knelt in the Chamber of Echoes. She lowered herself onto cool moss, letting her knees sink until they found a natural hollow, as if the floor had learned her shape over countless vigils. Her hands rested lightly on the living carpet, fingertips brushing pearl-gray lichen that pulsed with faint bioluminescence. Each pulse matched the slow throb of sap moving inside the walls.
She inhaled. Rainwater, cedar d ...
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