Location: The Hollow Altar, Beneath the Fractured God-SpineThe altar was not made of stone.It was bone—vast ribs of a dead Sovereign, fossilized in thought, humming with pre-verbal frequencies that bent time around them.Hazeed stood before it, arms bare, eyes seething with fractured light.Before him knelt his chosen.A man stripped of name, future, and identity.Once a Citadel Dream-Historian.Now? A vessel of blasphemy sanctified.“Speak your former truth,” Hazeed commanded.The man looked up. “I once believed the Weave could unify us.”“Was it wrong?”“It was incomplete.”“Then you are ready.”Hazeed drew a blade not forged, but remembered—made from the scream of a dying god and the silence that followed.He carved no wound, but a concept across the man’s forehead. The Glyph of Discontinuity.With it, the man’s old beliefs were undone.His name was rewritten in reverse.His dreams unanchored from the Citadel Codex.He had become the first of the Dissonant Flame.The altar flare

Location: The Shattered Library — Heart of the Lost WeaveThe walls were alive with fractured stories, flickering like ghost flames.In the shadows, figures moved—silent, agile, and unseen by all but the most attuned.They called themselves the Storythieves.Led by a woman with eyes like cracked mirrors—Tessara—they specialized in stealing forgotten memories, snatching myths erased by the Loom’s rewriting.She crouched over a broken tome, fingers tracing a line of erased text.“They can rewrite history,” Tessara murmured, “but they can’t unlearn the stolen stories.”Behind her, a dozen Storythieves gathered. Their voices were low, urgent.“We have the lost verses from the Time of Sundering. If we share them, we can fracture the Loom’s grip.”One stepped forward, a youth named Jorin, whose hands shimmered with the stolen light of unmade worlds.“What do we do with the Conductor, Tessara? Lira’s crown will make her a beacon.”Tessara’s eyes hardened.“Exactly. The Sovereigns will swarm