He blinked, the wind—or what passed for wind in this rewritten edge of reality—carrying the soft scent of ash and blooming grass. Impossible scents. Memories layered over each other.
"Do you feel it too?" Myne asked beside him, her voice soft, not afraid, but reverent.
He nodded. "It's not just light anymore. It's language."
"The world is learning how to speak again," Nexus said from behind them. "It forgot when the Outer Gods devoured context. But now it's listening. Watching. Imitating."
"Like a child," Myne murmured. "A newborn world."
"No," Aiden said slowly. "A remembering one."
—
Far above them, the constellations began to shift.
Not randomly, not chaotically.
They formed patterns.
Glyphs from ancient spells. Symbols from languages that no longer existed.
Fragments of stories the Chronicle Mother had tried to erase.
The stars were reconstructing forgotten truths. Not recreating the past, but offering pieces of it back.
It was a quiet defiance.
