Long before the first wound was ever recorded, there was the Plan. It wasn't written in ink, but in the vibration of a thousand oscillating blades—a frequency so high it sounded like silence to the ears of men.
The Father had called it a Metamorphosis. The First-Born had called it a chore.
For two millennia, the system sat in a state of suspended animation, waiting for the Beacon to reach its final stage. Down in the "mud" of the world, a child watched a Rabbi by a pond, unaware that he was a lock made of meat and bone, holding back a tide of celestial fire.
The "Highland Leak" was only at 7% then. The world wasn't solid; the Blood Moon was approaching from the horizon.
The Manhunt had already begun. Somewhere in the Command Tier, a Scribe dipped a pen into a well of burning light and prepared to write the history of a war that would end with a secret.
This is the truth that remains untold. Until now.