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... now... they were weaker. Fainter.
For it, too, was being devoured.
And Lakeman had five years to make this his.
Time had no meaning within the Rainbow Mist.
The sun never rose. The moon never set. The skies were only endless veils of shifting color — violet bleeding into emerald, gold cascading into crimson, azure melting into silver. And in that eternity, one figure ruled.
Lakeman.
By the second year, the mist was no longer a prison. It was his pl ...
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