The temple stood as a monument to the first stories. Carved from stone older than memory, it bore the marks of a time when the Watchers walked among the stars, recording the birth of worlds.
The seeker ran her hand along the carvings. Each symbol spoke of balance—the endless dance between light and shadow, creation and destruction. At the center of it all was the crescent, the mark now burned into the child's palm.
"This place..." she murmured. "It wasn't made for mortals. It's a bridge."
"A bridge to what?" the child asked.
The seeker hesitated, her voice barely audible. "To the truth. To the Watchers."
The child tilted their head, their glowing eyes narrowing as if seeing something beyond the walls. "He's here," they said simply.
The seeker froze, the words sending a shiver down her spine.
---
He observed.
The carvings on the walls, the symbols on the child's palm—they were familiar to Him. He had seen this story play out on countless worlds, always the same yet endlessly different.
This child, though, was unusual. They had seen Him, acknowledged His presence in a way few ever had.
He felt the weight of their gaze and wondered, for a fleeting moment, if they would be the ones to change the pattern.
But He remained still, letting the story unfold.