The final image closes the chronicle with solemn grace. Emissaries from distant lands stand beneath vaulted columns, their robes edged in gold that catches the morning light. Between them lies a single scroll — the Accord — its seal unbroken, its promise enduring. The artist’s steady hand speaks of reverence, not ceremony. Light filters through smoke still lingering from Alexandria’s night, casting each face in shadow and hope alike. This is not the end of the story, but the beginning of memory’s covenant.


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