Prelude

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The wind blows, whispering.

They have forgotten.

Tree leaves rustle in a hushed reply.

But they will remember.

Once, the universe trembled in the World's palm, while the wandering Fool stumbled along, blissfully oblivious to the precarious drop at the edge of the cliff a mere few feet away.

Of beginnings and endings, the tale as old as time did tell, and the Major Arcana were each chapter in the storybook of life, where neither prologue nor epilogue made their mark. When the last page was flipped, the cycle began anew, a little dog yapping away as the Fool continued his endless journey.

The tarot was an ouroboros that fed itself, the mouth yawning wide as its tail connected the ring of eternity, the flow of time confined in its grip.

But as the last of the Major Arcana receded, that vicious journey also ebbed until it became no more than a glorified tale of a forgotten past.

Still, the Mark of the Arcana prevails.

Glittering stars are careless specks in the carpet of night when the lives of twenty-two individuals will become forever intertwined by the constellation of fate.

It creeps upon them and strikes abruptly. As the viper bares its fangs, searing pain burns itself into the succulent flesh, crippling agony streaking through its victims as an identical mark brands itself onto the left wrists of the serpent's prey.

The adder's ambush hits bulls-eye, and crimson-red drenches the sky.

And thus the twenty-two fall, coalescing into one, stirring an existence that has been dormant for thousands of years.

Yet when they must rouse again once more, there is a dawning realization that they are pawns washed ashore – and their existence beyond this connotes nothing at all.

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