The Lore
When the last well of ink dried, 777 statues opened their eyes.
They had stood in the old cathedrals for a thousand years — stone angels, unmoving, unnamed. When the final well of ink ran dry across the old world, it didn't vanish. It sank into marble. Into wingspan. Into bowed heads and raised swords.
777 statues woke that night, ink running through carved veins instead of blood. Each one remembers a different moment: a fall, an ascent, a battle, a vow of silence. None of them remember being made — only being found.
They walk InkChain now, permanent and unrepeatable. What ink has sealed, ink does not unseal.
"We were carved once. We will not be carved again."
