The Garden bloomed.
But not with peace.
Its roots coiled in anticipation, leaves sharpened into sigils of resistance. The air was thick—not with fear, but with meaning. So much meaning that even silence felt like speech.
At the center, the Blank Sky Pact gathered around the unwritten clause that hung in the air like a final chance.
A question still unanswered.
A sentence still becoming.
Across the horizon, the Claimed arrived.
They came not in chaos like the Unwritten, but in rigid, terrifying formation. Every step fell in perfect time. Their banners were made from final chapters. Their armor was bound in conclusions.
And at their head rode the High Canon.
He did not speak.
He annotated.
Each movement of his red pen left corrections hanging in the air like verdicts.
He crossed out entire possibilities with a flick of his wrist. Whole theories unraveled just from his gaze. He was not a general—he was an editorial certainty.
And he had come to fix the world.
