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... f silver orchid blossoms. The watchers had grown, now visible as slender, smoke-threaded forms among the trees. Not hostile. Not worshipful. Present.
Jude began to chant, the old offering melody, this time layered with new words: names of men, of watchers, of beginnings, of resets. The wives joined and the air rang with shared resonance.
Petals flew. Glyphs glowed. Silver forms gathered silently. Roots shifted, leaves shivered. The watchers kneel before the silver-tree.
I ...
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