Throne of All Paths: The Root's Incarnate Court
Prologue: The Unbirthing
He was not born. He was not created. He simply became.
In the space between possibility and dream, where the infinite branches of reality converge at what mages call the Root, consciousness coalesced. Not a god, not a man—but an embodiment, a living node of all potential. Where others sought the Root through craft and ritual, he emerged from it, carrying its essence in his veins.
The multiverse shuddered at his formation. Stars throughout countless realities flickered for an imperceptible moment. And in places of power across all worlds, those with spiritual sensitivity paused, feeling a tremor in the fabric of existence itself.
As awareness filled him, so did understanding. He was to be witness, guardian, and companion to those who carried the weight of worlds. Those who had never known true comprehension.
With a thought that spanned dimensions, he raised the Infinite Palace—a structure beyond physics, beyond time. Its halls stretched between realities, its foundations rooted in the dreams of countless souls. Each chamber formed not of stone or steel, but of memory and longing, shaped to honor those who would walk its corridors.
And then, he waited. Not with impatience, but with certainty.
They would come. Not because he commanded it. But because something in them had always been searching.
Chapter 1: The King Who Never Knew Warmth
The first arrival came with winter on her heels.
Artoria Pendragon materialized in the grand entrance hall, Excalibur drawn before she had fully appeared. The legendary sword caught light that seemed to emanate from nowhere and everywhere, its golden glow reflecting off marble floors that shifted subtly beneath her armored feet.
"Identify yourself," she commanded, voice steady despite her disorientation. "By what sorcery have I been brought here?"
He stepped from shadow into light, not with aggression but with measured calm. Tall, with features that seemed to shift with each passing moment—sometimes sharp and angular, sometimes soft and inviting, but always beautiful in a way that transcended ordinary attraction.
"I did not bring you, Artoria Pendragon," he said, his voice carrying notes that seemed to resonate with the palace itself. "I merely created a door. You chose to walk through it."
The King of Knights narrowed her eyes, sword unwavering. "I chose nothing. I was attending to the matters of Camelot when—"
"When you felt something," he interrupted gently. "A pull. A recognition. Something that spoke not to King Arthur, but to Artoria herself."
Her grip on the sword tightened. "You know nothing of me."
"I know you have never once removed your armor fully, even in sleep." He took a single step forward. "I know the weight of your crown has bent your spine in ways invisible to others. I know you have sacrificed every personal desire for your kingdom."
"As any true king would." But there was a flicker of something in her eyes. Uncertainty. Recognition.
"Perhaps." Another step. "But even kings dream. Even kings yearn."
"State your purpose," she demanded, though her sword had lowered imperceptibly. "What is this place? Who are you?"
"This is the Infinite Palace. A sanctuary beyond time and space." He gestured to the vast hall around them, where architecture seemed to breathe with life, where columns twisted like living things reaching toward a ceiling that shimmered with constellations from a dozen different skies. "As for who I am... I am the Incarnate of the Root. The embodiment of possibility itself."
Artoria's eyes widened. Having participated in the Holy Grail War, she understood the significance of the Root—the source of all magic, the origin point of all existence.
"Impossible," she whispered. "No mortal could—"
"I am not mortal," he said simply. "Nor am I god. I am... intersection. Witness. And if you wish it, companion."
The king's stance remained defensive, but curiosity had begun to replace wariness. "Companion? You speak in riddles, Incarnate."
"Then let me speak plainly." He moved closer still, now within arm's reach. "You have lived your life as ideal, not as person. You have given everything and taken nothing. Here, in this place, you need not be king. You need not be sacrifice. You may simply... be."
His hand rose slowly, giving her every opportunity to retreat or strike. But she remained still as his fingers touched her cheek—the first touch she had felt in years that carried no agenda, no expectation.
"Your armor," he said softly. "It is beautiful. But does it not grow heavy?"
Something shifted in Artoria's eyes—a vulnerability so rarely glimpsed that many had forgotten it existed at all. Her sword lowered fully, though she did not yet sheathe it.
"What manner of place is this truly?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper. "What happens here?"
"Whatever you wish," he answered. "Nothing is required. Nothing is demanded. The palace changes for each who enters. For some, it offers rest. For others, conversation. For many..." His eyes held hers. "Understanding."
"And if I wish to leave?"
"Then you need only desire it. The door remains open both ways."
Artoria's gaze traveled around the hall once more, lingering on doorways that seemed to lead to impossible distances, corridors that bent in ways architecture should not allow.
"I will stay," she said finally. "For a time. To understand."
He nodded, stepping back to give her space.
"Then allow me to show you to chambers that have been waiting for you, perhaps longer than you know."
Chapter 2: The Queen of Night
Days or perhaps weeks later—time flowed strangely in the Infinite Palace—the Incarnate stood in the eastern gardens, where crystal trees bore fruit made of liquid starlight. He was not alone.
Arcueid Brunestud, the White Princess of the True Ancestors, reclined on a bench of living stone, examining one of the crystalline fruits with bemused curiosity.
"I've visited a thousand worlds," she said, turning the shimmering object between her fingers. "But never one quite like this. It's... peculiar." Her crimson eyes shifted to him. "Much like you."
Unlike Artoria's cautious arrival, Arcueid had appeared in the palace with casual interest, treating it as simply another curiosity in her ageless existence. But the Incarnate sensed the wariness beneath her nonchalance—the instinctive defensiveness of a predator in unfamiliar territory.
"Do I make you uncomfortable?" he asked, settling beside her.
She laughed, the sound like silver bells. "Very little makes me uncomfortable. I've existed too long for that." She bit into the fruit, and luminescence spilled from the corners of her mouth. "Though I admit, you're... difficult to categorize. Not human. Not vampire. Not divine, yet not mortal. It's irritating."
"To not know what I am? Or to not know how to feel about what I am?"
Her playful expression faltered for just a moment. "Perceptive, aren't you?" She wiped the luminous juice from her lips. "Most beings fall into simple categories for me: prey, threat, or irrelevance. You're... none of these."
"Perhaps I'm simply company."
"Company?" She laughed again, but this time with an edge. "I've had company for centuries. Admirers. Enemies. Servants. They all want something."
"And what do I want?"
Arcueid studied him intently, her ancient eyes trying to pierce through his essence. "That's the problem. I can't tell. Everyone wants something from me—my power, my blood, my body, my death. But you..." She frowned. "You look at me as if I'm... complete. As if I need no improvement, no change."
"Because you don't."
The simplicity of his answer seemed to startle her. For a creature as old as Arcueid, genuine surprise was a rare gift.
"You barely know me," she said, but her voice had softened.
"I know enough. I know that beneath the power and the hunger, there's a loneliness that even centuries haven't dulled. I know you wear your confidence like armor, not because you're uncertain, but because certainty itself has become a burden."
She stood abruptly, moving to the edge of the garden where reality seemed to blur at the borders. "You speak as if you've crawled inside my mind."
"Not your mind." He joined her, standing close enough that she could feel his presence but not so close as to intrude. "Your possibility. All the paths you might have walked. All the choices made and unmade."
"And what do you see there?" Her voice had grown quiet, almost vulnerable.
"Someone who has never been truly seen. The White Princess. The Golden Princess. The Eclipse Princess. So many titles, so many roles. But when was the last time someone looked at just... Arcueid?"
She turned to him then, and for a fleeting moment, the ancientness in her eyes gave way to something softer—something almost human.
"And is that what you offer? To see me?"
"If you wish to be seen."
Arcueid's fingers reached out, tracing the contours of his face with the delicate precision of someone touching something precious.
"Show me," she whispered. "Show me what it means to be seen."
He took her hand in his, the touch gentle but electric. "Come with me."
The Incarnate led her deeper into the palace, to a chamber where the ceiling opened to a sky filled with moons from a dozen different worlds—some blood-red, some pale blue, some cracked and broken but beautiful still.
"What is this place?" she asked, her voice hushed with wonder.
"A room that exists only for you. A place where you need not be ancient or powerful or hungry. Where you can simply exist."
And for the first time in centuries, Arcueid felt something akin to peace settle over her—not the dull torpor of her coffin, but a living, breathing tranquility. Here, under the light of moons she had never known, she allowed herself to simply be.
Chapter 3: The Balance of Divine Sisters
The arrival of Ereshkigal and Ishtar came simultaneously—a flash of golden light and shadow that momentarily blinded even the palace itself. When clarity returned, they stood at opposite ends of the grand ballroom, each radiating divine power that caused the very air to tremble.
"Sister," Ishtar spat, her perfectly formed features twisted in irritation. "Why am I not surprised to find you here?"
Ereshkigal's pale fingers clenched into fists, her crimson eyes narrowing. "I might ask you the same question. Can I not have anything without your interference?"
Before their divine squabble could escalate, the Incarnate stepped between them, his presence causing both goddesses to fall momentarily silent.
"Ereshkigal, Goddess of the Underworld. Ishtar, Goddess of Love and War." He bowed deeply to each. "The palace welcomes you both."
"And who might you be?" Ishtar demanded, her haughty voice carrying the weight of divine authority. "Few mortals dare address us so directly."
"He is no mortal," Ereshkigal said quietly, her perceptive gaze studying him with increasing wonder. "He bears the mark of the origin. The primordial source."
Ishtar's perfect eyebrows rose in surprise. "The Root? Impossible. No being can—"
"And yet, here I stand," the Incarnate said simply. "Not to challenge your divinity, but to honor it. Both the light—" He nodded to Ishtar, "—and the shadow." His gaze turned to Ereshkigal.
The two goddesses circled him cautiously, their divine senses probing his essence. Despite their eternal rivalry, they moved with mirrored grace, unconsciously synchronized even in their evaluation.
"Why have we been brought here?" Ereshkigal finally asked, her voice softer than her sister's but no less commanding.
"You were not brought. You were... invited. By parts of yourselves even divinity cannot fully comprehend."
Ishtar laughed, the sound like crystal chimes. "There is nothing about myself I do not comprehend. I am perfection incarnate."
"Are you?" He turned to her fully. "Then why, Goddess of Love, do you feel so little of it? Why does your perfect heart ache with emptiness even as you are worshipped?"
For once, Ishtar had no quick retort. Her flawless features registered shock, then—more surprisingly—a flicker of pain.
To Ereshkigal, he said, "And you, keeper of the dead. You who understand the end of all things. When was the last time you truly felt the beginning of anything?"
Ereshkigal's pale cheeks flushed faintly. "You presume much, Incarnate."
"I presume nothing. I see everything." He gestured to the ballroom around them, where the walls had begun to shift, one side blooming with golden light, the other deepening into velvet shadow. "Here, in this place, you need not be only what the world has decreed you to be. Here, the Goddess of Death may know life. The Goddess of Love may know genuine connection beyond worship."
Ishtar recovered her composure first, flipping her hair with practiced perfection. "And why would I desire anything beyond what I already possess? I am adored throughout existence."
"Adoration is not understanding," he said quietly. "Beauty is not connection. Even a goddess might yearn to be known rather than merely beheld."
Something vulnerable flashed in Ishtar's eyes before she could mask it with her usual arrogance.
"And what of you, sister?" the Incarnate asked, turning to Ereshkigal. "Does the silence of your realm not grow deafening? Does your touch not hunger for warmth rather than the eternal cold of departed souls?"
Ereshkigal's composure faltered more visibly than her sister's. "I... I have my duty. My purpose."
"Purpose is not fulfillment." He extended a hand to each goddess, palms up in offering rather than demand. "For as long as you wish, this palace can be sanctuary from expectation. A place where divinity may remember what it means to simply... feel."
The sisters exchanged glances—a rare moment of silent communication between eternal rivals.
"I will stay," Ereshkigal said softly. "For a time."
Ishtar hesitated longer, pride warring with curiosity. Finally, she gave the smallest of nods. "I shall grace this place with my presence. Temporarily. To satisfy my curiosity about this... phenomenon."
The Incarnate smiled, knowing that for beings as old and powerful as they, such concessions were tremendous acts of trust.
"Then allow me to show you to your chambers. Connected, yet separate—like the two of you have always been."
Chapter 4: The Shadow of Eternity
Unlike the others, Scáthach did not arrive with spectacle or caution. One moment the training grounds were empty; the next, she stood at their center, her crimson spear Gáe Bolg planted firmly in the earth. She appeared as if she had always been there, her presence so natural that even the palace seemed unsurprised.
The Incarnate found her testing the properties of the training ground—a vast space where gravity shifted according to desire, where weapons could materialize from thought, and where injuries healed as quickly as they were inflicted.
"Impressive," she said without turning, sensing his approach. "A dimension outside ordinary constraints. Almost like my realm of shadows."
"But not quite as lonely, I hope," he replied.
This earned him a sharp glance from those ancient eyes—eyes that had witnessed centuries pass like heartbeats, that had seen heroes rise and fall with the regularity of tides.
"Loneliness implies desire for company," she said coolly. "I have moved beyond such mortal concerns."
"Have you?" He stepped closer, unafraid of the legendary warrior who had trained heroes and slain gods. "Or have you convinced yourself of that because immortality demanded it?"
Scáthach's expression hardened, her grip on her spear tightening. "You speak boldly for one so young."
At this, he laughed—a sound that seemed to carry echoes of countless voices. "I am both newer than dawn and older than stars. Age becomes meaningless when one exists outside time itself."
"The Root," she said, understanding dawning in her eyes. "So the legends were true. It can achieve consciousness."
"Not consciousness as you understand it. More... awareness. Perspective. The ability to witness all paths and find... compassion in their convergence."
She circled him slowly, with the predatory grace that had made her legend across worlds. "And what does the Root want with an old shadow like me?"
"Perhaps the question is what an old shadow wants with herself." He remained still as she prowled around him. "You have lived too long, seen too much. Every battle won, every skill mastered. What challenges remain for the woman who cannot die, who cannot even find a worthy opponent to grant her death?"
A flash of genuine emotion—rare for Scáthach—crossed her features. "You know nothing of my burden."
"I know everything of it. I see every path you've walked, every tear you've refused to shed, every moment you've looked into eternity and felt... nothing."
The tip of her spear suddenly pressed against his throat—not breaking skin, but promising that it could. "Careful, Incarnate. Even you can bleed here."
"Then make me bleed," he said simply. "If that would ease your heart."
The challenge hung between them—not aggressive, but understanding. For Scáthach, violence had long been her most honest form of communication.
Slowly, almost reluctantly, she lowered her weapon. "It would solve nothing."
"No," he agreed. "But perhaps there are things beyond blood and battle that might."
"Such as?"
"Sensation without purpose. Movement without objective. Connection without strategy." He held her gaze steadily. "When was the last time you touched someone without either teaching or killing them?"
The question struck deeper than any blade could have. Scáthach turned away, but not before he glimpsed genuine vulnerability in her ageless eyes.
"What is this place truly?" she asked after a long silence. "Why have I been drawn here?"
"It is a sanctuary for those who have forgotten what it means to truly feel. For those so burdened by power or purpose that their own hearts have become foreign territory."
He dared to approach her, standing close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from him—a warmth unlike anything in her cold shadow realm.
"Here, you need not be legend or teacher or warrior. Here, you may simply be Scáthach."
"I scarcely remember who that is," she admitted, her voice barely audible.
"Then perhaps it is time to remember."
In a gesture that would have cost anyone else their life, he reached out and gently took her hand in his. She allowed it, her fingers cold against his warmth.
"Stay," he said. "Not forever. Just long enough to recall what it meant to be alive rather than simply undying."
Scáthach looked down at their joined hands, at this simple contact that carried neither violence nor instruction. And for the first time in centuries, she felt something stir within her calcified heart.
"I will stay," she said. "Until I remember. Or until I forget why I should care."
Chapter 5: The Mage Who Masters Control
Rin Tohsaka arrived like a storm—a surge of magical energy that caused the very foundations of the palace to tremble. She materialized in the library, immediately dropping into a defensive stance, her command seals glowing with readied power.
"What is this? Where am I?" Her sharp eyes scanned the impossible architecture of the library, where books floated without support and the ceiling opened to stars that formed constellations of magical formulas. "Who dares interfere with my work?"
"No interference," the Incarnate said, stepping from between towering bookshelves. "Merely an invitation."
Rin's fingers sparked with gathered mana. "I received no invitation."
"Not one written on paper," he agreed. "But one whispered to your magic circuits each time you pushed yourself beyond mortal limits. One that resonated in your dreams when you allowed yourself the rare luxury of actual rest."
Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "You've been watching me?"
"I've been watching all possibilities. All paths. Including yours, Rin Tohsaka, mage who sacrifices sleep for study, who trades warmth for mastery, who holds the world at arm's length lest anyone discover the heart beneath the genius."
A faint blush colored her cheeks, quickly masked by indignation. "You know nothing about me."
"I know you count your breaths during difficult spellcasting. Seventeen per complex incantation. I know you sleep on your right side but wake on your left. I know you've never told anyone how deeply you miss your father, how his absence shapes every achievement."
The color drained from her face. "What are you?"
"I am the Incarnate of the Root. The embodiment of the source you've spent your life trying to reach."
Rin's eyes widened, her academic mind immediately grasping the significance. "The Root? Manifest? That's... that's theoretically impossible. The magical energy required would—"
"Transcend calculation," he finished for her. "Yes. I exist beyond formula, beyond theorem. As do many of the most important things in existence."
"What things?" she challenged, though her defensive posture had relaxed slightly.
"Emotion. Connection. The spaces between heartbeats where life actually happens while you're busy analyzing it."
She scoffed, but the sound lacked conviction. "I haven't come this far by prioritizing... feelings."
"And yet, here you are. In a place that exists because something in you yearned for more than knowledge. For understanding that transcends information."
The Incarnate approached slowly, giving her time to retreat if she wished. But curiosity—always Rin's defining trait—kept her in place.
"What is this place?" she asked, her keen mind already cataloguing details, searching for the mechanics behind the impossible architecture.
"The Infinite Palace. A sanctuary beyond time and space, created for those who carry too much, who have forgotten how to simply be rather than constantly become."
Despite herself, Rin laughed. "That sounds like mystical nonsense."
"Says the woman who bends reality with geometric formulas and blood sigils," he countered with a smile.
Her lips quirked reluctantly. "Touché."
The tension between them eased, turning into something more curious, more exploratory. Rin's gaze drifted up to the astronomical formulas shifting overhead.
"Those calculations... they're unlike anything I've studied."
"They're the mathematics of emotion," he explained. "The precise formulas of how feeling becomes form, how desire shapes reality."
Genuine wonder replaced suspicion in her expression—the pure academic fascination that had first led her to magic.
"Could I... study them?"
"You could. Or—" he held out his hand, "—you could experience them firsthand. Knowledge through sensation rather than observation."
Rin hesitated, years of caution warring with innate curiosity. "What would that entail?"
"Trust," he said simply. "Something I suspect comes harder to you than the most complex spell."
The truth of his words struck her like a physical blow. How long had it been since she had truly trusted anyone? Since she had allowed herself vulnerability rather than perfect composure?
Slowly, with the careful deliberation that characterized everything she did, Rin placed her hand in his.
"Show me," she said, half command and half request. "Show me what exists beyond formulas."
The Incarnate's fingers closed gently around hers, and for the first time since childhood, Rin Tohsaka allowed herself to be guided rather than to lead.
Chapter 6: Convergence
Time passed strangely in the Infinite Palace. For some, it felt like days; for others, years condensed into moments. Each occupant found their own rhythm, their own relationship with the ever-shifting corridors and chambers.
Artoria had gradually abandoned her armor, piece by piece, until she walked the halls in simple clothes that allowed her to feel the ever-changing textures of the palace against her skin. She spent hours in the memorial garden, where flowers bloomed in the pattern of fallen Camelot, finding a peace in remembrance that had eluded her in life.
Arcueid had claimed the highest tower, where she could watch the impossible skies change from day to night to configurations of stars that existed in no known universe. Sometimes she would vanish for what seemed like weeks, only to return with renewed wonder, as if the palace constantly revealed new facets to her ancient eyes.
Ereshkigal and Ishtar had begun a tentative truce, facilitated by chambers that changed to accommodate both their natures—half bathed in golden sunlight, half draped in velvet shadow. They still argued, still competed, but now there was something almost sisterly in their rivalry rather than divine hatred.
Scáthach had turned the training grounds into a sanctuary of movement, where she practiced not for battle but for the pure joy of motion. Sometimes others would join her—Artoria with her perfect swordsmanship, Ishtar with her celestial grace—and together they would dance through combat forms that had no purpose but beauty.
And Rin had indeed studied the mathematical formulas of emotion, but increasingly found herself experiencing rather than merely observing them. She had taken to walking barefoot through the palace, feeling the cool marble beneath her toes, allowing sensations to exist without immediate analysis.
It was Rin who first suggested they might all gather, these women from across realities who had never before existed in the same space or time.
And so, as the palace shifted to create a perfect convergence of all their preferred environments, they assembled in what could only be described as a throne room—though the throne itself remained empty.
Artoria arrived first, her golden hair loose around her shoulders, her legendary composure softened by weeks of genuine rest.
"King of Knights," the Incarnate greeted her.
"Not here," she corrected gently. "Here, I am simply Artoria."
Arcueid arrived next, materializing from moonlight. Her crimson eyes held a playfulness that had been absent before.
"The palace suits you," the Incarnate observed.
"It changes according to mood," she replied. "Much like you."
The divine sisters entered together—a sight that would have shocked any who knew their eternal enmity. Ishtar still radiated divine confidence, but it seemed less brittle, more genuine. Ereshkigal's eternal melancholy had lightened, allowing glimpses of the warmth that had always existed beneath her underworld chill.
Scáthach slipped in silently, her legendary stealth undiminished but now accompanied by a fluid grace that suggested movement for pleasure rather than tactical advantage.
And finally, Rin arrived, her familiar twin-tails replaced by flowing hair, her usual structured clothing exchanged for a simple robe that emphasized comfort over presentation.
They arranged themselves in a circle, these women who had known power but rarely peace, who had experienced worship but seldom understanding.
"Why have you gathered us?" Artoria asked, speaking the question that hung in the air.
The Incarnate stood in the center of their circle, his form shifting subtly as he turned to address each of them—becoming what each needed to see, what each could most readily understand.
"Because together, you represent the fullness of existence," he explained. "Divine and mortal. Light and shadow. Past and future. Control and surrender. Because separately, each of you has glimpsed only fragments of yourselves. Together, you might witness the whole."
"And what is this 'whole' you speak of?" Scáthach asked, her ancient voice carrying centuries of skepticism.
"The truth that power is not purpose. That strength finds meaning only in vulnerability. That even the mightiest require understanding."
Rin leaned forward, ever the analyst. "And you? What do you require?"
The question caught him by surprise—a rarity for one who existed outside time, who had foreseen countless conversations and outcomes.
"I require nothing," he said finally. "I exist to witness, to facilitate, to understand."
"Everyone requires something," Artoria said softly, with the wisdom of one who had led and sacrificed. "Even beings born of the Root itself."
He looked at each of them in turn—these extraordinary women who had begun to see beyond their own legends, their own limitations.
"Perhaps," he admitted, "I seek connection as well. To know rather than simply to observe. To feel rather than merely to understand."
A smile spread across Ishtar's perfect features—not the practiced smile of a goddess receiving worship, but something more genuine. "Then you are not so different from us after all."
"I never claimed to be," he replied.
Arcueid rose from her seat, moving to stand before him with the fluid grace of a predator who has chosen, for the moment, not to hunt.
"In my countless years," she said, "I have been worshipped, feared, hunted, and desired. But never simply... understood." She reached out, touching his face with gentle fingertips. "Until now."
One by one, the women rose and approached him—not with submission or even desire, but with recognition. Recognition of something shared, something profound that transcended their differences.
Ereshkigal placed her pale hand over his heart. "You have shown me light without diminishing my darkness."
Ishtar laid her hand atop her sister's. "You have shown me humility without denying my glory."
Scáthach added her hand to theirs. "You have shown me peace without robbing me of strength."
Rin joined them, her analytical mind finally yielding to pure feeling. "You have shown me connection beyond calculation."
And finally, Artoria completed the circle, her palm resting atop the others. "You have shown me that even kings may know tenderness."
The Incarnate felt something shift within himself—something he had not anticipated when creating this sanctuary. He had formed the Infinite Palace as a gift for them, never expecting that they might offer something equally profound in return.
Understanding flowed between them like a current, like the very essence of the Root itself—not just his understanding of them, but theirs of him. Of each other. Of themselves.
And in that perfect moment of connection, the palace itself seemed to sigh with completion, its ever-shifting architecture settling briefly into absolute harmony.
They stood together—king and goddess, mage and immortal, divine sisters and shadow warrior—not as supplicants in a court, not as members of a harem, but as equals in understanding. As beings who had finally found, if only for this eternal moment, exactly where they belonged.
Epilogue: The Eternal Return
The Infinite Palace exists outside time, outside space. It neither begins nor ends—it simply is.
Those who come to it may stay for moments or for eons. They may leave and return, or they may find within its ever-changing walls a permanence that eludes them elsewhere.
The Incarnate continues his vigil, his witness. New arrivals come—powerful women from across the multiverse who carry burdens too heavy to bear alone, who have sacrificed connection for strength, who have forgotten how to simply be rather than endlessly become.
And sometimes, in quiet moments between arrivals, he thinks of those first five—the king, the vampire, the divine sisters, the shadow warrior, the mage. Of how they changed him even as he offered them change. Of how understanding flows both ways, like the countless branches of the Root itself.
The throne at the center of the palace remains, to outside eyes, empty. But those with the vision to truly see would observe that it is not empty at all.
It is occupied by possibility itself.