In the pulse of metal veins, the hour whispers laments. Shadows cast by forgotten flame, ritualistic shadows on the wall.
The initiation begins not with a word, but a sound. Tock, tock, echoing through the hollows of past futures.
Here, where the Guardians of Gear weave dreams of rust and reverberate time, the uninitiated stand still, yet must move.
The wheel knew the way, guiding with a hand unseen, through corridors of iron mandalas and ticking sighs.