Noah lifted the burning pen to the blank page and wrote.
The blue-gold flames followed the tip across the gold, and he spoke the words aloud as they formed, his voice low and steady in the dark of the Descent.
"There are lifeforms existence cannot weave around. It must weave toward them."
The first line burned itself into the page, and the page shuddered.
"Wherever such a one walks, chance leans. Strangers meet who never would have met. Old enemies take the wrong road and arrive at his door. Lost things surface at his feet."
His hand slowed. The pen grew heavy, as if every word pulled against something enormus.
"The threads of every life nearby bend. Slowly. Gently. Inevitably. Until they run through his hands."
The flames around him roared higher, and the white throne behind him groaned.
"Existence has known very few of these. It knows one now."
He pressed the tip down for the last line, and it felt like pushing a mountain uphill with a single finger.
