But every flame casts a shadow.
And somewhere beyond the Grove's newly lit heart, the dark stirs—not in anger, but in echo.
Because not all stories wish to be heard.
Some were built to be buried.
And some buried themselves.
Below even the Chamber of the Unwitnessed lies another plane. No one carved it. No figure named it. It is older than any ritual, older than the Grove's first breath.
It is called the Dimming.
Here, stories go not to be forgotten—
But to forget themselves.
No script lives here. No roots.
Only silence so thick it can be tasted.
Only a stillness that devours.
And in this hollow vastness, something wakes.
Not because it was summoned.
Because it was noticed.
The Witness of Flame, in kindling the Chorus of the Heard, has done what even the Threadkeeper feared:
They have made story remember it exists.
And now, from the Dimming, it rises.
Not a beast.
Not a figure.
A reversal.
