The sky was not a sky anymore.
Above Aiden, there was only a web—vast, shimmering threads that spanned the hollow firmament like cracks in the shell of a forgotten cosmos. They pulsed faintly with a dull light, as if struggling to remember what stars were.
He stood upon the last remnants of form, a drifting continent of ash and memory suspended in the void that remained after the One Without a Page was named. All around him, echoes curled like dying smoke—echoes of voices, places, battles long consumed by unbeing.
But Aiden still remembered.
He had to.
The Book That Was Never Written rested in his hand, its pages heavier than fate. Each word he inscribed bound fragments of meaning into existence again—like sewing threads through a tapestry the universe had long stopped trying to mend. The ink was not ink. It was essence, reclaimed from the forgotten, wrung from his own memories.
Behind him, the Blank Sky Pact hovered like drifting ghosts. Silent. Diminished. But not broken.
