It drifted phantom-like in the cool night air, a wistful breeze ushering in a faint aeolian hum masking its already hushed arrival into the city. The third toll of a distant bell tower reprimands those still burdened with consciousness, reminding It of the mournful knells of the Northern Isles It had heard only nights ago. A bout of fatigue drew It to alight near a fountain hidden by the foliage and darkness of a vacant park ground. Taking a moment to indulge in the tranquil trickle and plips of the fountain water and the wavelike rustling of the trees swaying before deciding to satiate Its intolerable thirst. 

      In one of the four towers of the Scholar's District, the scratches and taps of a fervent scrawl plague the hands of an elderly academic by the name of Nelius Nabahs, known to many in Hiatus as the Right Hand of Queen Mètra. His ongoing devotion to finishing his ever-growing treatise revising the sealing techniques used to keep the constant malignance of the chasm at bay, while also trying to record what will effectively be his last entries in a collection of memoirs written in a now tattered leather-bound tome, often kept his aged mind and withering body tethered to his study well into the late hours of the night. 

      The toll of three gives the man pause, a deep yawn escaping his wrinkled and bearded visage before giving way to a long grating cough that bellowed and crackled throughout the tower. His aged body folded in his chair and a splatter of blood loosens itself from the back of his throat, painting the floor as he attempts to catch any amount of air in his lungs. A darkness fills the outer rim of his vision as he struggles to breathe for what feels like several minutes before finally sitting back up in his chair, a cold sweat now building upon his brow.

      A cold draft swept throughout the room gently rustling many of the loose pieces of parchment Nelius had strewn across various desks and tables in his tower of study, the window on the far side of the room earning a tired glance from the old man. His furrowing brow twisted the rest of his face tightly as he tried to reminisce on his time in the tower tonight, failing to recall the moments in which he would have had to have gotten up to open up the window. He hurriedly attributed this to his declining memory as a chill crept its way through his body, motivating him to find the strength to rid the source of this newly discovered draft. 

      Just as he reached to steady himself on the armrest of his chair, a sound above him caused an instinctual pause. His position in the chair restrained his eyes from the ceiling, offering him a false solace in the form of a blissful ignorance he debated on keeping. He thought for only a moment before realizing his pause might be taken as a sign he had become aware of whatever presence he believed to be above him. The ashen hairs on the back of his neck pricked up sharply, and another second of desperate silence passed slower than he had ever experienced in his long and accomplished lifetime. He waited for what felt like hours, and the next second never came.

      As if the universe had brought itself to a halt in front of him, the stillness he felt in that moment weighed on him gently like a blanket made of every star in the night sky. A familiar wetness filled his eyes, tears pleading to escape down his face and softly patter onto his old robes. But they would not leave his eyes, his vision blurring as if he had opened them underwater; he could not blink, nor swallow, his mouth seemingly immovable, he tried desperately to wipe his eyes only to find no feeling or strength in his arms. An unknown fear immediately filled his mind and heart as he frantically tried to flail his body forward with every ounce of energy he had left. After struggling for a time he could no longer feel passing, Nelius Nabahs -one of the greatest minds and wizards since the fall of the Ancients- was reduced to a series of stifled sobs through the slow flare of his nostrils. 

      Out of the silence came a voice as dead and low as the marshes of the Drowned Mire, the sound like sand toiling its way through long-forgotten alleyways in a city deserted by everything but time itself.

      "Do not cry...," It started calmly. The tranquil trickle and plips of a fountain began to fill the quiet silence the old man had now grown unknowingly accustomed.

      "You'll ruin the memories...".