(Warning glyphs appear in margin; origin suppressed. Translation incomplete.) Do not mistake the Feather for an ornament. It was never meant to be worn, nor worshiped, nor displayed. It is a passage—a way between worlds. In its quill is written a path of light, too narrow for darkness to follow. In its barbs sleep the Names of Doors—places even gods cannot reach without invitation. When a world sickens, when chaos coils around the innocent, the Feather is sent ahead— not to a throne nor to a warrior, but to one who walks without pride. But know this: what leads the lost can also lead the hunters. The same trail of light that opens sanctuary can be followed by those who devour it. For this reason the Feather must never be revealed. Its glow must be hidden beneath ordinary things, mistaken for trinket, toy, or story scrap. So long as no one believes in it— it remains safe. Those who hunt it are ancient. They wear the storm as their cloak and ride upon thunder so that fear goes before them. They are blind to courage, deaf to innocence— but they see power, and they smell light. The Feather-Bearer must wander, never staying long in any world, for the moment the Feather rests, the hunters will feel the stillness. This is why he does not speak his name. This is why he travels alone. This is why storms follow him. Not because he is cursed— but because he carries refuge. (End of fragment. Several lines erased by deliberate scraping.)