The silence after Dürer's departure felt clean — like a page wiped bare, waiting for a new mark.
Rex stood alone.
Still clutching the brush, still staring at the sketch of absence on the canvas. But something in him had shifted — a subtle sharpening of perception. A whispering awareness of space, angle, and intent.
The faint glow of the previous glyph still flickered beneath his skin, slowly fading into memory. But something remained — not just a memory, but a tension, a readiness. A canvas stretched tight before the brush touches it.
Then, without fanfare or sound, the world around him… shifted.
The air grew dense — not heavy, but thoughtful. Like a breath held in quiet contemplation.
A soft light descended — not golden, but cool and clear, like moonlight over parchment, as if time itself parted to let it through.
And from that light, a figure emerged.
Not from one place, but from many.
