He stood in a world without sky.
Or rather, the sky was not above—it was within.
Kael drifted through an ancient vision, not bound by body or name. Around him, people moved in perfect clarity. Their thoughts were not hidden behind expressions or lies. They shimmered outward, forming patterns in the air around them—living glyphs of truth.
A child laughed, and her memory of that joy danced into the minds of nearby elders.
A man wept, and no one asked why—they knew.
There were no secrets.
Kael felt the purity of it like cool water on his skin. It was not utopia—there were disagreements, rivalries, even violence—but there was no confusion. No manipulation. Conflict burned clean.
Then it changed.
He saw a moment—a single man, flinching as a private grief was echoed aloud by another.
He recoiled.
A decision was made.
A barrier was built.
A thread sealed.
That moment cascaded. One by one, people learned how to close their thoughts. To wrap memory in layers. To own truth.
At first, it was protective.
Then strategic.
Then weaponized.
Kael watched the rise of memory ciphers, encoded truths, personal narrative shields.
Then came the first Archive.
A place not to preserve memory—but to control access to it.
That first building grew into a Vault.
And the Vaults became Houses.
And the world forgot what it was like to be known without fear.
Kael felt the ache of that forgetting—not a pain, but a loss so profound it had shaped every generation since.
The lattice whispered, not in sound, but in sensation:
This is not what we were meant to become.
Kael drifted back through the threads, heart heavy.
The truth wasn't a weapon.
It was a wound.