Safar Timura first appeared to the council as he so often did — already listening. Beneath the crystal vaults of Craftworld Elune, where wraithbone arches sang softly with the memory of lost ages, he stood with his witchblade held loosely at his side, its presence a quiet counterpoint to the weight of foresight. The skeins had been restless long before the council convened, threads tightening and slipping from his grasp in patterns that spoke not of certainty, but of cost. Safar did not raise his voice to command attention; he did not need to. When he spoke, it was with careful precision, each word chosen to preserve futures rather than claim them. He was not there to promise salvation, only to warn what must not be spent too freely — lives, strength, or hope — for Elune’s survival depended not on glorious sacrifice, but on the restraint to endure what fate had not yet finished demanding.
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