Upon the alabaster parchment, etchings of stardust and ether whisper through time, a tapestry woven with threads of moonbeams.
In the cosmic vault, they linger, lingering like dreams descending upon the dawn, which slip silently through the dawn, elusive, eternal.
"Time bends, where the angels tread," they proclaim, inscribing destinies in clocks made of silence and shadows.
The sky, a vast scroll unfurled, preaches the unwritten, the unsaid—arcane truths etched across its cobalt canvas.
Wanderer, should you seek them, pause at the veil of mist where echoes form firmer shapes, and listen to the whispers of forgotten corridors.