Before there was anything, there was Silence. Not the silence of rest, or of peace, but a Silence so thick it swallowed all and from that Silence, something stirred.

The Dreamer, who slumbers. They did not wake. They breathed. And with each soft breath came visions, many and strange. Whole worlds flickered in and out, bright and brief lik sparks from a dying fire.

But the visions would not remain flickers forever. A second presence cut through the endless nothing, the Chronarch. He carved a line, a whole, or a river. Scholars don't agree. But from that time bled. Past, present, and future untangled themselves, and the Dreamer’s visions at last could latch onto a guid.

Yet still they slipped away, half-born and forgotten.

Until the Archivist. They say it carried only a quill. Some claim it was plucked from themselves, others say it was carved from the Silence itself. With it, the Archivist wrote. It did not matter what was true before, false, or half-imagined. Once inscribed, it became.

And so the Three were bound. The Dreamer imagined. The Chronarch measured. The Archivist remembered. Together, they are the Triptych, though whether they are kin, or foes, or three heads of the same hidden being, no one can say.

But know this, the Triptych’s work was never neat. Their hands overflowed. The Dreamer dreamed too wildly. The Chronarch’s river of time flowed too fast. The Archivist’s pages bled with excess…