The Eye hovered between them, small enough to cup in the palm, yet heavy enough to anchor the cosmos. Its whisper spilled into the marrow of their bones, weaving not as command, but as invitation.
"You chose. You refused inevitability. And so you are granted the freedom to write. To inscribe what cannot be given, only forged."
The air rippled—pages of invisible parchment unfolding in every direction, stretching into eternity. Each shimmered with faint impressions, not yet words, but possibilities. Empty. Waiting.
Fenric's breath stilled. His silver fire flickered against the unseen sheets, each pulse painting a fragment of law, order, symmetry. His chest ached with the hunger to impose perfection—but the Fifth Truth burned against that instinct. No inevitability. No mirror. His trembling hand reached upward, and instead of chains, the silver threads bent, forming a single stroke of light across the blankness.
