Within ancient tomes, there lies a passage, unlit by the eyes of the common. These chronicles whisper secrets of a time forgotten, of rites and shadows, beckoning the brave or foolish onward. Here, in the interstice of reality, the arcane is both a sanctuary and a prison.
Visitations upon the forgotten paths yield a harvest of shadows. The ritual gleanings speak of incantations not uttered for centuries, woven with the sinews of despair and whispered prayers. A flicker of memory plays beneath the surface, an echo of the ancient.
Mosaic tiles of destiny crumble and reform beneath the seer’s touch. Their hands, cloaked in ether’s embrace, unravel the threads holding temporal bounds. Is it foresight or a theft of moments lost to the void?