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Mothsong

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The moth that had been called Revenant flew free, its controlling harness removed, the hated shear canon disassembled. It glided and darted through the void with no goal, wanting only to be away. Until it sensed something unexpected, impossible: in the distance, a faint song.

It was sweet and achingly familiar, like something from its dreams when it still lay curled in the darkness of the egg. It answered, in its own harsher voice.

And then there was motion and flight all around it, a bewildering dipping and turning of black-silver mothwings. Come, they sang joyfully. They flew onward, together.