The Blank Sky Pact was not about beginnings. It was about refusal. A pact forged not in hope, but in rebellion against the rewriting of truth. Aiden stood at its center, the Unwritten Blade sheathed across his back, burning with potential.
They knelt before him.
He did not ask them to rise.
He simply spoke.
"There's an author now," Aiden said, voice carrying like thunder across a world without air. "Not of stories. Of reality. One of the Outer Gods. She has no name—only a title: The Chronicle Mother."
The Ash-Tongued Chronovore shuddered, and Aiden saw chains stretch into existence around his shoulders—the mark of having once served her, unknowingly, through the cycles.
"She pens entire civilizations from nothing," he continued. "She makes false histories. False gods. She doesn't invade."
He looked at them all.
"She rewrites."
And they understood.
If she succeeded, there would be no war to fight. No rebellion to stage. No truth to uphold.
