Somewhere far away, an earthen lamp flared to life.
Its flame flickered in the dark, small and stubborn, pushing back against a blackness that had no edge and no end. The light did not reveal walls, nor sky, nor ground. Only the suggestion of space in between nothingness.
"The Idealist has fallen silent once more."
The voice was deep, unhurried. It did not echo.
Another presence stirred.
"This isn't the first time," it said. "There's no need to wake the others."
A pause.
Then a third voice, quieter, sharper.
"…Was it the chained one?"
Silence stretched.
The flame bent, bending sideways, as if something unseen had passed nearby.
"Attribution is unclear," the first voice replied at last. "Someone is interfering. Blocking the flow. Obscuring the conclusion."
The dark seemed to press closer.
"Then find the truth," the second voice said.
"And when you do," the third added softly, "do not wake us unless you must."
The lamp continued to burn, alone in the void.
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Deep within the forest, underneath the canopy of trees, someone stood awake while the rest of Vriksh slept.
They watched the stars through gaps in the branches, brows drawn together.
The stars were unusually bright today.
But something was unnerving.
"Tides are shifting," they murmured, more to the forest than to the night. "Pressure is building."
A pause.
"Gods already walk this world," they said quietly.
"And something far worse has begun to remember as well."
The stars did not answer back.