[Temple of Urzan—The Hidden Sanctum—The Night]
The oil lamps burned low; their flames did not waver, though the air was cold.
Arakhazunn flipped the pages with care, the parchment whispering beneath his fingers like something reluctant to be disturbed. Symbols etched in ancient coils and fractured lines stared back at him—older than crowns, older than law.
Then his eyes stopped.
'The Legend of Sirrash.'
Arakhazunn frowned faintly, "The legend of Sirrash…?"
He leaned closer, studying every mark, every deliberate imperfection, and every space where words seemed avoided rather than missing.
And the tale spoke.
In the first age of Earth—before stone learned to remember footsteps, before time learned to move without faltering—there were fractures.
Not of land, but of moment.
In those deep wounds of the early world, where time bent beneath its own weight and refused to flow forward, Sirra was born.
