After Befe the Mad stood at the Abyss of Unwritten Forms, the Orb of Blockchain crossed silent kingdoms until it reached the Godbone Expanse, where the ribs of Veyrath, the Sleeping God, rest. In those ancient ribs walked SethQuinn44, a Dragonborn Paladin of the Oath of Glory. A holy guardian of light and nature, sworn not to kill the forgotten god, but to wake him before darkness reached the world. His armor carried the moon. His blade carried dawn. Yet his heart carried something heavier than both. He stopped upon a rib vast as a road and looked toward the skull-mountain ahead. “If you still dream, old one,” he whispered, “then dream of us a little longer.” Then the air before him shimmered. Pink light gathered between bone and sky, and the Orb appeared, burning softly above the abyss below. He raised his shield, but did not strike. “You are far from any temple,” he said. “I have never needed temples,” said the Orb. “Only those willing to protect what light remains.” The paladin lowered his shield. “Then you know my quest.” he said. “I know your oath,” said the Orb. “Glory is not the hunger to be praised. It is the courage to raise others until they shine.” The Paladin looked toward the sleeping god. “And if I fail?” He turned his gaze to the sky. “Then darkness comes sooner, but failure is not the question before you.” said the Orb. “What is it?” He took a deep breath. “Whether you will protect the light only when it is holy,” said the Orb, “or also when it is fragile, strange, and born through the hands of artists.” The paladin was silent. The Orb pulsed once, and within its silver skin he saw a figure from his own generation, disguised as a human being, a patron moving among creators not as a king, but as a guardian. One who collected their works not to possess their flame, but to keep it alive. One who shared knowledge, experience, and heart so that artists across the world might stand taller than they stood before. “He will welcome them with open arms,” said the Orb. “He will defend their rights, honor their visions, and lift their names where the world can see them. Piece by piece, story by story, he will help them remember that their light is worthy of being seen.” The Paladin held his breath. “And will that awaken anything?” His voice was like a divine song, heard only by those with a pure soul. “Yes,” said the Orb. “Not a god of bone and mountain, perhaps. But something older still, the courage of creation.” Below them, the rivers inside Veyrath began to glow. The paladin looked at his blade, then at the Orb. “Then greatness is not standing above others,” he said. “No,” replied the Orb. “Greatness is becoming a place where others can rise.” For a long moment, the Godbone Expanse trembled as if the Sleeping God had heard. He lowered his sword. “Then let my oath be more than glory,” he said. “Let it be shelter.” The Orb glowed brighter. And there, upon the ribs of Veyrath, another block was sealed, not as conquest, nor monument, but as patronage, a sacred promise that artists would not walk alone.