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... e deep choir stirred. Their eyes—milky and ancient—glimmered like pearls soaked in shadow. Lyrielle stood upon the jagged throne of bone and coral, her hair flowing like tendrils of ink through the water. Her voice was soft, a haunting hum vibrating the very currents around her.

"Go," she whispered, and the choir obeyed.

They rose like a wave of ghostly shadows, a procession of sirens long lost to the world above. Each one bore scars of time and battle, their forms twisted yet be ...

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