He was not born with a name.
Or rather—he had one, once, but it had been rubbed from stone, scratched from parchment, and struck from memory. The centuries had made sure of that.
In the places where sages whispered and monks drank ink in their meditations, he was only called the Architect of the End.
A frail figure wrapped in a robe stitched with fragments of dead tongues, he walked not upon soil or sky, but along the edges of a void where light itself faltered.
He carried no staff, no blade, only a scroll that never ran out of parchment and a quill that never dulled. He was a cartographer of that which could not be mapped.
The void was called many names—the Stillness, the Great Forgetting, the Abyssal Threshold. But in truth it was one and the same: the Endless Expanse.
To a mage at the edge of breakthrough, the Expanse sometimes flickered across closed eyes—a glimpse of impossible horizons, a silence too vast for thought.
