For two hundred and fifty cycles, the Nine had slumbered—cradled in the hush of their own vast dreaming, their breaths the slow turning of stars, their silence the weight of forgotten wars.
But the Ninth…
Oh, the Ninth. Its eye, though closed, never slept.
Two hundred and three cycles it lingered at the rear— the least cultivated, a quiet fracture in the great wheel, watching while the others forgot to watch.
Its lowest guardians prepared, sharpening their blades in the dark.
Invaders whispered destruction across the revitalized Gate.
Ancients of old cycles rose, teeth bared, seeking blood that still remembered their names.
They dance… they scheme… they bleed.
Yet every step, every vow, every drawn breath turns beneath the shadow of the unblinking gaze.
The wheel creaks… and still the eye watches.
Softly. Patiently. Inevitably.
What will it decide today?
The dance has only begun—and already, it is ending.
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