I sat upon an ornate chair. My fingers—one, two, three, four, five—tapped the armrest. The wood was warm. Almost alive.
The air tasted of ozone. Of possibility.
I knew ███████ would come. The question was whether they would arrive separately or simultaneously. Whether I could manipulate each conversation or orchestrate all three at once.
My sapphire eyes—a choice made eons ago for reasons I could no longer remember—sparked when the temperature plummeted.
Frost crept across stone. My breath misted.
A dark shadow poured into my chamber like smoke given terrible purpose.
███████████.
The embodiment of entropy itself.
"Grandmother," I said, testing the word. "I see you couldn't ignore the irresistible pull of..."
I paused.
"Evolution."
The rest of this record is damaged beyond recovery. Temperature fluctuations in the archive suggest the presence of ███████ █████ during transcription.
Does the Grandmother agree to help create the dimension?