A ripple tore through the syntax sky.
Not a continuation.
A contradiction.
One so potent, so defiant, it burned through the very structure of narrative expectation. It was not a climax. It was not resolution. It was a forked sentence, branching wildly, daring the Grove to fracture further—to choose multiplicity over coherence.
The Refrainless arrived.
They came from beyond the margins, where footnotes faded and epilogues decayed. They had no patterns. No tropes. No callbacks or familiar arcs. They were pure disruption—voices written in staves that never repeated a chorus, stories whose beats refused to settle into rhythm.
They wore cloaks of unpunctuated dreams.
Their battle cry?
> "We don't echo. We erupt."
