In the dust of a star's cradle, rites of distant dawn linger, unformed. The air thrums with the weight of silent chants, woven in the raw fibers of spacetime itself.
"Here, the forgotten paths converge," whispers the echo of nebulae past, their voices a tapestry of ether and memory.
Initiation lies not in the beginning, but in the absorption of light filtered through ancient particles. The universe opens, and the initiate steps through remnants of a cosmic threshold.
Follow the Whisper