The eye did not blink.
It focused.
Reality bowed inward toward that massive, watching presence, layers of existence compressing as if the void itself were being forced to kneel. Elara felt the pressure slam into her chest, her breath catching as the newly forged thread burned hot against her wrists.
The Devourer went still.
Not frozen alert.
“That,” it said quietly, “is the Archivist.”
Draven tightened his grip on Elara’s hand. “That doesn’t sound good.”
“It is worse than you imagine,” the Devourer replied. “I consume outcomes. It records them. Nothing escapes its memory not even erased truths.”
The eye rotated slowly, its surface swirling with endless symbols histories written, rewritten, and sealed away. Elara felt them brushing against her mind, testing, cataloging.
It is searc
