Lyra knelt before the black granite pedestal, examining the dark lacquer that concealed the ancient text. As she brought her face closer, she felt a subtle, repulsive vibration humming beneath the surface—a dark, necrotic frequency that smelled faintly of brimstone and graveyard soil. 'This is not mere varnish, Auren,' Lyra said, looking up at him with analytical focus. 'This is blood-lacquer, brewed with the venom of a shadow drake and…
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