Within a space thick with gray mist, two beings that were godlike yet not gods stared at one another. The aged face holding a quill still regarded the black sun hanging opposite him with suspicion.
Loki, the God of Stories, was an extraordinarily unique being in the universe. He governed all stories within it—creating them, listening to them, feeling them. He was the child of stories and their father as well. Thus, whenever a story was written beneath his pen, it was inscribed upon his soul as well.
Recently, an absurd, bizarre, and terrifying story had caught his attention. There were countless horror stories in the universe, but most were scattered and chaotic. Each tale contained some ghost or monster, varied in every way, yet none knew the others. Most of the time, they only harmed the race that had created the story.
But the story Loki, the God of Stories, had recently heard was entirely unlike the others. There was order amid its chaos. Countless terrifying beings had their own names and even familial ties, weaving a complex web of relationships through their symbols, personalities, and preferences.
Yet there was great disorder within that order as well. They had no intention of deliberately harming any Intelligent Life. They merely remained quietly in the depths of the stars, while the madness suffered by those who peered at The Truth was nothing more than what they had brought upon themselves.
Leaving that aside, the tumultuous tale stretching from Englewood to the end of Dream's mysterious dream world had stirred the God of Stories' curiosity. He wanted to know whether there truly was something in the depths of the stars.
So he had come, and he had seen this black sun hanging high in the heavens—terrifying, magnificent, and glorious.
Yet no matter