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In deep orbit around a dying star, a silent monastery drifts alone—its halls carved from moonstone and stardust, lit by the soft pulse of solar currents. Inside, ancient scrolls float weightlessly in glass cylinders, each etched with the memories of extinct planets, encoded in forgotten alphabets. The Archivist—an ageless monk in flowing robes embroidered with constellations—drifts through a gravity-neutral chamber. Around him, holo-scribes and memory spores shimmer in suspended animation. A soft chime rings for each thought he restores, each species he remembers. He touches one scroll, and the scent of alien rain fills the room. Behind him, a massive translucent wall reveals the quiet collapse of a distant galaxy, its slow death casting gentle blues and purples across the marble floor. The Archivist’s eyes, though sightless, glow faintly—he does not see with light, but with remembrance.
A magical male sorcerer, with dark hair, light tan skin, and glasses, dressed in a dark blue hooded cloak with sleeves covered in sparkling stars and constellations, stands in a cosmic library filled with glowing orbs, floating glass cylinders holding ancient scrolls, and light grids, as he reaches out to touch one of the glass cylinders, in a long shot, with the background of the image being a swirling galaxy filled with nebula clouds, and a marble floor reflecting the light. By Isobel Blundell
