At the edge of the cosmos, where silence paints the void in strokes of despair, the vessel perched—a craft of dreams, built upon letters and whispers of long-lost echoes. The archivists gathered, their hands tracing the worn covers of every collected tale, each a universe unto itself. They were the last guardians, the architects of destinies borrowed from the shawls of ages untold.
Above them, constellations poured like molten silver over the edge of oblivion—a cascade of dying stars that held the promise of rebirth. The eldest of the archivists, with eyes reflecting the light of nova eons, spoke in hushed tones. Words dripped like honey from forgotten tongues, weaving a narrative as ancient as time itself.
Toward the Abyss Codex of Silence Echoes from the Periphery