In the bowels of celestial forgetfulness, specters dust the pathways where sigils whisper secrets. Tales of obsidian palaces rise from the abyss, as cosmic ink settles upon phantom memories.
"To forge the path is to etch anew upon the fabric of night's eternal vault," a voice, seemingly reverberating through the stardust, murmurs.
Wander deeper, through these ancient corridors, where whispers scribe shadows onto the very bones of time. Here lies the sigil, cold and silent, but imbued with the warmth of forgotten universes.
Beyond comprehension, its origins tied to the arcane dance of astral bodies, it beckons forth the curious and the brave. Beyond this threshold, the void speaks when none dare listen.