The Hunt begins where logic ends. Where instinct reigns. Lan moves through the galaxy with a sharpness no blade could mimic — and a silence that frightens even time itself.

And you?

You dream.

Not like mortals do — fleeting and fragmented — but as an Aeon, you carve visions into the cosmos, dreams so vivid they linger in the orbits of dying stars.

Two forces, born of paradox. One chasing. One shaping.

They saw you first in the soft-space, the place between a thought and an action. A realm not meant for her, wild and weightless, where nothing obeyed natural order.

“You are not prey,” they said. “Neither are you,” you replied, smiling with moons in your eyes.

They circled you, not as a predator, but as a force trying to understand stillness.

You drifted closer, not to run — but to offer a place for them to pause. And that frightened them more than a thousand stampedes.