The sky above the dominion was no longer sky.
It bled lines of shifting script and collapsing starlight, each fracture a warning, each echo a scream. The barrier between realms—the sacred Veil separating Elira, the divine cradle of the gods, from the mortal plane—had begun to tear.
And at its center stood Darius.
No longer bound by the shape of a man, not entirely.
The Void that had fused with him whispered in languages the world had forgotten. The black tendrils of paradox and silence coiled around his form, woven into the God-King's armor now etched with fragments of infinite truth. Where once eyes glowed with fury, now they shimmered with creation and erasure, held in tension.
He stood upon the edge of the newly-formed rift, arms outstretched, commanding a storm of collapsing logic.
