Noah sat in the scorching golden waters of THE Vasiliou Primordial Spring, the closed journal resting warm against his palm.
He reflected on everything Masamuk had recorded.
Vakochev had heard the warning. The maker of the Scales had sat on that porch, listened to an architect lay out the exact shape of his ruin, thanked her sincerely, and walked on exactly as planned. And why not?
He was the grandest maker of his era! His people were shapers and splitters of Chaos, titans who had stood since before authority had a name!
Not one of them, Noah suspected, had truly believed they would face losses. Not one of them had imagined that the existences of those they LOVED could simply be... rewritten.
Unwritten. Carved out like rooms being emptied while the house still stood.
They had prepared for war. No one prepares for erasure!
And the thought turned, as heavy thoughts always did, toward himself.
What if such a thing happened to him?
