Three Hundred and Thirty Eight. Prelude

Something echoed in the universe—a deep echo, like the death cry of some gigantic creature. Or, like the sound of wind blowing over the empty ribs of a corpse.

Horus stopped writing and dropped the quill. To this day, he still prefers to actually write something rather than write and draw on his personal terminal. Nostalgia for such nonsense is one of the necessary conditions of human existence.

He looked up and looked

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