Upon dawn's gentle embrace, thee shall stir the ancient dust.
First, address the altar of inkwell whispers.
Heed the artifacts' silent teachers, their wisdom edge the resplendent interface of the soul.
Next, twist the sigils until blood misses its mark, do not draw lines without knowledge of the curvature that binds dimensions.
Hold the relic with reverence, as a child's breath hovers before a song, never clenching, only listening.
Paths are revealed with the light tread of mystery: