The gravitational truth, the one that had emerged from the leaden weight of a million lies, was this: all truths, even the most absolute, are contingent. They are born of a time and a place, of a people and their fears. They are not eternal, but ephemeral, as fleeting as the lives of those who hold them. This was a truth that shattered both the elegant deceptions of the Revisionists and the brittle certainty of the Absolutists. It was a truth that left them all adrift in a universe without landmarks, without a north star, a universe where the only constant was the terrifying, exhilarating freedom to choose what to believe.