Our Scholar of the Empyrean is fading. He walks slower now, can't make his rounds to the Night Sanctums like before. He's been our guide for decades—and for decades, we've made these offerings. But lately, doubt grows among us. The Ancients have not returned. Not in twenty-two years. Their absence once felt sacred. Now, it feels like abandonment. And today, left by the Ancients and burdened to make the choice alone, the Scholar named his successor. His own son. The announcement came without ceremony, without counsel—just a degree passed from fading lips. But we've barely seen the boy. He's no elder. He's never stepped inside the Sanctums alone. Some bowed their heads, still clinging to old reverence. But more kept their heads high—eyes filled with doubt. Is this how it ends? I fear the Ancients won't bless us with their presence again.