He raised his hands to see the fair hands of three women, slender fingers that had woven the fates of countless beings across eons of existence. All of them wore obsidian-gold robes that flowed like liquid night, waves of golden hair cascading past their shoulders in styles that were similar but not identical.
Three bodies.
One memory that he was now experiencing from the inside.
The region around them slowly came into focus.
They stood on the stair steps of a massive obsidian temple, a structure so vast that its upper reaches disappeared into darkness that seemed to exist beyond normal space. The stairs were wide enough for armies to march upon, each step carved from stone that held the weight of ages.
Pillars of twisted obsidian rose on either side, their surfaces inscribed with symbols that hurt to look at directly.
And at the very center of this temple, at the apex of those endless stairs, a single aura waited.
THE Weavers walked toward this entity.
