The platform of the Middle Wheel stretched before us, broken and vast, a graveyard of forgotten dreams.
Votharion Mountain loomed in the distance, its shattered spires clawing at the heavy skies.
I moved.
Thauron moved.
Two currents winding silently through the ruins, the fragments of collapsed paradox vibrating softly underfoot as we passed.
Each of us gathered Sigil Fragments, the shimmering shards of some deeper authority, with fluid ease, our Null Forms drifting across the dead terrain like specters.
And as we moved, Thauron spoke.
Only I could hear him.
The others watched, Primarchs, Resplendent Monads, entities of renown, but they heard nothing. The space between us was soundless to them.
But not to me.
Never to me.
"There was once," Thauron began, his voice like the shifting of ancient stone, "an Existence."
His vast hand, clawed and unhurried, swept down to gather another fragment glowing faintly with the authority of time.
