[The Final Architecture]The music box did not merely play; it bled.The melody—a fragile, minor-key lullaby—coiled through the heavy velvet drapes of the master suite, filling the spaces between the basalt walls with a sound that should have been impossible. It was a phantom vibration from a dead mother’s lips, a sequence of notes that existed only in the private cells of Ivy’s memory.Dante did not pull his hand away from her neck. If anything, his grip tightened—not in a gesture of violence, but in a quiet, tectonic grounding. He remained seated on the edge of the mahogany bed, his body a pillar of obsidian stillness. He didn't look at the music box. He looked at Ivy."The frequency has changed," Dante whispered. His voice was a low, dangerous velvet, untouched by panic. "The silence we built was a lie."Ivy stood between his knees, her breath hitching in time with the mechanical click of the silver wolf and bird. The gothic weight of the mansion seemed to lean in, the shadows stre
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