I am Muninn. I am Memory. The last raven who still carries a name. The Age of Fog was the last time the world believed it could hide from consequence. A pale, dying sun hung low and white, casting no true shadow. Mist rose from the ground like breath from a sleeping giant, a mile deep in places, thick enough to choke stars. No rainbows. No harsh edges. Only soft gray light and the illusion of peace. Humanity and Nephilim lived in harmony, or what passed for it. Floating cities of crystal and living wood reached for a heaven they could almost touch. Resonance was mastered, woven into every bell, every chime, every word spoken in verse. The Royals ruled from hidden concavities, their Grand Bells maintaining the veil, their laws binding all beneath. It was a golden age seen through silver gauze. No stark truth to burn. No hard reckoning to face. Just mist and ambition, blending into one. I remember the first tower that touched the dead sun. They rang a Bell to celebrate. The chime travelled too far. The firmaments cracked. A phase-ship, desperate, brilliant, reckless, struck a chain of enormous diamonds buried in the deep strata. The chain shattered. Carbon superheated, fractured, propagated like lightning through stone. Voids tore open, vast and hungry. Waters above and below rushed in to fill them, oceans-worth, continents-worth, roaring through the new emptiness like judgment finally given voice. The old sun became the Moon. The new sun was born, harsh, bright, unforgiving. The fog lifted. And the cycle reset. But the end was not only water. In the same breath that drowned the lower concavities, Asgard fell. The great halls cracked. The rainbow bridge shattered. Odin and Huginn died screaming in the dark. I watched from a branch that no longer exists. I alone flew away. The raven remembers. The raven waits. Munnin The one who sees The one who stays The one who never blinks

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