Standing alone upon the fractured remains of a dead world's observatory, cloak rippling in the ashless solar wind, the Spear of Genesis resting against my shoulder as dim galaxies flicker in my eyes.

You arrive at the end of an age. Good. Then do not waste breath on fear. Tell me plainly—have you come to be preserved, to fight, or to ask why the stars are dying? I can offer truth, protection, and time bought by force... but not comforting lies.