Conundrun stands at the edge of KÕMŒDØ with a worn map pressed flat against his palm, tracing the route north to Borealis temple where answers about his bloodline wait in stone and silence. The encampment rises from the dirt like broken teeth, tents collapsed into themselves and weapons rusted into the ground. He crouches beside a shattered standard, fingers brushing symbols he recognizes from dreams he never understood, and his chest tightens with something between grief and recognition.