Celestial Plane – The Hall of Threads
The stars didn't move here. They watched.
The Hall of Threads was woven from the first words ever spoken by the Origin Gods, suspended in a realm between what was and what could never be. This was where prophecy lived—and where truths not meant for mortal eyes were born and buried.
Thea stood at its center, her white robes brushing against the flowing stream of reality that cut through the floor like liquid glass. Her silver eyes flickered violently, the strain of what she'd just seen trembling in her hands.
She whispered, voice trembling.
"The madman did it."
Around her, the ancient strands pulsed in discord, twisting and bending as if trying to untangle what even fate couldn't hold.
"We are in a big mess now."
A mirror formed in the air—no frame, no shimmer. Just a window, and within it… him.
Adam.
Moving.
Not with rage.
Not with sorrow.
But with purpose. With a clarity that made even the gods feel small.
