The silence that followed the formation of the Rewoven Council was not peace.
It was the calm before memory awakened.
Though the light of Lucius's new reign spread far and wide, illuminating the corners of forgotten worlds and mending fissures in space and time, some echoes refused to fade. Deep within the farthest rifts of the Multiverse—where light still had not reached—remnants stirred.
Not everyone had bowed to the Crown Rewritten.
Not all were ready to accept the new dawn.
In the abandoned quadrant of Hyracil, a once-prosperous realm consumed by arcane frost centuries ago, something moved beneath the glacier of time. Ancient shrines hummed. Runes long sealed under layers of cursed ice glowed faintly.
A figure emerged, wrapped in robes that smelled of iron and dust, their face hidden by an ever-shifting veil.
The Archivist.
One of the last High Judges of the Old Order.
Forgotten by most, but not by the Throne.
And not by Walter.
