In the farthest reaches of memory, there exists a tome. Its pages lean toward the ephemeral, ink danced across by hands now vanished into time's embrace.
The book records tales of an era when suns cast longer shadows amidst the dying embers of day, leaving hues that lingered on walls long forgotten. Scholars spoke of realms beyond our comprehension, where whispers carried truths known only to the universe's heart.
McMillan in the fading light of sun that autumn day. Diminishing motes danced in the light as he carved glyphs into the damp library air, their lines returning gently towards infinity folded under the weight of aeons.
They record his sigils, shadowing the expected light of day. Touch not the spire of tempered obsidian, nor unlock the stoic visage shielding tongues only known to whisper affirmations and dismissals in throaty tones.