In the muted whispers of forgotten epochs, where shadows cast by a waning moon dance upon the walls of the deserted keep, time spirals into itself.
Here, in the interstice of reality and whispers, the voice of a timeworn specter murmurs, cascading tales of the ethereal pulse that binds worlds in looped embrace.
As you tread upon the cobblestones, age-worn and slick with the sheen of bygone rains, fractals emerge, weaving through your mind like thread in the loom of fate.
The clock tower, a skeletal finger piercing the sky, strikes a hollow note, reverberating through the caverns of ephemeral memory.
There, among the ruins of the citadel, a lone raven perches, its obsidian feathers absorbing the dim light as it watches with eyes like endless voids.
In the distance, a soft murmur of forgotten names; a latticework of voices, now one, now many, merging into a singular pulse, an echo of the cosmos breathing.