Remember, as the elder once warned, never to trust a star that flickers when silence is deep. On the third eclipse of the month unnamed, a traveler from the moons west brought tidings: the past is an echo, waiting to be whispered into the fabric of time.
In the caverns beneath the crumbling citadel, lies the Weaver of Futures, they said. She weaves threads not of silk but of stars, binding the paths of the wayward and lost. The time-traveling ancients pay her with stories unspoken and moments untaken.