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At the threshold where light dissolves into nothing, golden flames drift upward as feathers, silver shadows fall downward as tears. They meet in mid-void, locking together into a spinning cube, each face a living psalm. From within its rotations steps Metatron, crowned by the cube, his essence half-fire, half-echo. He raises one hand, and the void ripples outward in concentric rings of scripture, each line burning then fading into silence. The cube spins, and the rings crystallize into worlds, each born from law, each dying into memory. Gold hums of beginnings, silver hums of endings, and he stands as the bridge that binds them, the eternal witness to their dance.
In a mystical realm where light fades, golden flames and silver shadows converge into a spinning cube. Metatron emerges, embodying fire and echo, creating worlds through concentric rings of scripture.
