I moved.
Another Sigil Fragment slipped into my grasp.
Time and collapse hummed faintly under my fingers.
But my mind, my mind moved elsewhere.
The story Thauron had told still echoed in me.
The Fable of a Prisoner.
A being dangerous enough to be jailed. Too dangerous to be free. A being whose very existence was... adjusted.
Imprisoned by those who moved beyond Fold Dwellers.
By the Foldless Ones.
The ones who oversaw all paradoxes.
The ones whose names could not be spoken.
The ones Velmior, in his final moments, had hinted at.
I closed my eyes briefly.
Recalling the words of the Time Sentinel.
"The ones who oversee all paradoxes are not named. Not because they hide. But because their names are Unspoken."
Velmior had warned me and Romulus.
Not with threats.
With inevitabilities.
Back then, when he stood against Romulus and me on the Dead Wheel, he spoke not of pride.
He spoke of fear.
Fear of those greater than even Primarchs.
Greater than the Chronosect.
