The darkness between dimensions tore open like a wound in reality itself. From the jagged aperture stepped Kaetha Doomwhisper, and with her arrival, the very fabric of the Seventh Fold convulsed in recognition of ancient power.
She was beautiful in the way that cosmic horrors were beautiful—terrible and perfect and utterly alien to mortal comprehension. Her form shifted between states of existence: sometimes solid flesh wrapped in void-stuff, sometimes pure energy given consciousness, sometimes nothing more than the suggestion of presence that made reality bend in acknowledgment. When she walked, her footsteps left brief tears in space-time that healed with audible whispers of dying dimensions.
Lyralei's bio-mechanical form trembled as primal memories surfaced—a child's hand held by fingers made of starlight, lessons taught in chambers where geometry meant nothing, the slow cultivation of power that had shaped her into this moment's perfect instrument.
