Whisperings of lost echoes... cannot... unheard...
The volume resonates, a clash of voices in symphonic delirium as the page shimmers into fractal night. An empress weeps across the tapestry of a dying sun, her tears carving rivers upon stone forgotten by fleeting mortals.
Amidst shadows and echoes, the knight wanders, sword drawn, desires painted crimson across the moonlit hour. A shard remains, splintering dreams, refracted destinies spiraling in kaleidoscopic abandon.
The air thickens—a breach, a whisper, a woven veil. The words stretch, wrap, constrict, release. Notoryu's chant lingers in the labyrinthine corridors. In the loam, seeds of galaxies wait, dormant, until they wake with song.
The book snaps shut, clapped by unseen hands. A ripple, a pause, a sigh... hum beneath silence unspoken, made tangible now by the pulse of truths unassumingly buried in startonic dust.
A single query—a myriad of responses: Which dream shards held truth?
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