A realm with no Wounds. No Tear. No Maw. Founder finds it in the shape he can understand—a satchel—and opens it expecting rot. Instead he finds cleanliness. Relief. Accusation. Then a voice from the seam: Ledger. And a destination: Grandfather Ash.

Don’t call it fate. Fate is just a choice with sharper teeth. I found Founder on the salt flats with a small fire and eyes like stone—calm, heavy, the kind of man the world fails to bend. He held a worn satchel in his hand like it mattered more than steel, and when he cracked it open the air flinched. I came to test him. I stayed because he didn’t reach for me. He just waited—and made me choose.

Winter comes down like a verdict, sealing a lone cabin in snow and silence. Founder sits before the hearth—scarred hands open, eyes fixed on the flames—while Rocco the bulldog anchors him with steady, stubborn warmth. The Bar Maiden, practical as a promise, decorates the room with green boughs and candlelight, determined to make the night kinder. But beyond the fire’s comfort, old voices stir… and an older wound waits, unspoken, beneath Founder’s coat.

At first light, the universe tried to collect on a bad decision.

A many-eyed demon in a woman’s skin came for the man the Maw had marked, and found him half-naked, unarmed, and still somehow too stubborn to die. By the time dawn finished climbing the tower wall, there was blood on the sheets, ash on the floor, a glowing sword in his hand—and a blessed bulldog standing between Hell and its favorite mistake.