THE First Gu of Time was gone.
The purple sky of the Chrysalis had gone back to being only a sky.
The time-disks spun on through the clouds as though nothing had hapened. The violet smoke drifted. Far off, something enormous and slow turned over in the murk and went back to sleep. And Noah stayed exactly where he was, floating in the middle of it all, because he had just been given a new piece of himself and he wanted to understand it before he took it anywhere else.
THE Osmontian Inscription of THE Dreaming Hour.
He had forged it out of nothing but his own Root, his own Provenance, and the time he had lived through. No Gu at its heart. No borrowed material. It was his in a way nothing he had ever carried had been his, and yet he needed to fully understand what it actually did. The prompts had told him, of course. But prompts were only words. He wanted to feel it.
So he started with THE Lived Hour!
