But for all that the Grove had welcomed—had invited, allowed, celebrated—
Not everything came to heal.
From a horizon written in void, from the margins that had been redacted and forgotten for a reason, came the ones who had never wanted multiplicity.
The Storykeepers.
They were once guardians. Now? Jailers.
Clad in papyrus armor and gilded footnote collars, they marched in step, bearing relics from the Age of Singular Truth. Their standards were citations. Their drums beat in strict, unyielding meter.
> "There was a right way once," they hissed through binding-cloth veils. "There can be again."
Their leader was faceless—a hooded absence in the shape of a man. Where a mouth should've been, there was only an epigraph:
> "This version supersedes all previous drafts."
