Then the Krymatemoun vanished, all at once, everywhere. No battlefield, no plague, no warning. Their disappearance did not merely remove a people; it removed the world’s best language for understanding its own magic. Spells remained, but proofs were lost. Wards still held, but fewer knew why. The Khuviorian Sanctum rose into its modern shape in this vacuum—neutral ground, sovereign archive, and trembling caretaker—because someone had to pretend certainty in public. By the present year, the Sanctum’s sensors speak a truth the council does not like to say aloud: the Urn is leaking, and the heirs of Khuvior are trying to repair a divine seal with mortal tools and half-remembered mathematics.