Mysteries unfold in the creased parchment, where the ink finds the unspeakable truths binding itself in a cacophony of silence. A crescent laugh slipped silently between the folds—its sound lost, yet ever-present.
"Listen to what is unsaid, for it speaks in echoes of broken mirrors," she murmured, her voice a delicate brush against the fabric of night.
The transformation awaits, locked in cascades of inevitable despair. Hands stretch forth, fingers tracing sigils, enacting the dance of illumination. Sparks—the remnants of starfire—glimmer upon the sage-blessed air.
The vessel stands tall. Dull, brooding. Her scent, a mix of marigolds and forgotten memories. Gather the remnants, the spine shivers under her gaze, pleading silently for salvation. But what lies below is far more enticing than freedom.