There was no dawn in the space where Darius awoke.
No sun, no stars, no time.
Only breath.
His breath.
He rose from the altar of finality—not reborn, not restored, but… available. Every atom of him hovered in paradox. He was the god who unmade gods. The echo of vengeance now quiet. The grief of Celestia still raw, yet softened by the final act.
The Crown of Finality lay behind him upon a pale slab of nothingness, dull and inert. It no longer pulsed with the will to end. Its edges frayed at the borders, already dissolving into code-dust, like a weapon that had done too much.
Kaela hovered beside him, a smear of color in the void. Her body flickered with a thousand versions of herself—child, goddess, enemy, lover—each bleeding into the next as if reality no longer knew which was true.
She smiled through the distortion. "We're nowhere," she said, her voice skipping like a broken song. "But it's pregnant."
