In the sanctum beyond genre, where no narrative form could fully shape the world, the Architect resided.
It looked like a thousand ideas stitched together: part celestial executive boardroom, part stage, part war room, part nursery of concepts that had never grown up.
The walls were lined with mirrors that didn't reflect light—but potential.
In one, Aiden stood beneath the bleeding sky, holding the Sword of Becoming.
In another, Kael sat by a dying fire, reading from the Testament of Things Unwritten.
In a third, Mira wept into the ashes of a world where she had never been born.
The Architect walked among them all, barefoot, draped in a cloak made of canceled storylines.
"I never meant to trap them," it said aloud, though no one was there.
Only echoes.
"They wanted to be remembered. I just... gave them the stage."
A shadow flickered at the room's edge. Not threatening—familiar.
A mirror cracked.
From it stepped a woman in red, her eyes the color of worn ink.
Mira.
