There are gods that exist.
And there are gods that remember.
But Darius had become something else entirely.
He had become the god that remembers through others.
They came in waves.
The erased.
Not spirits, not ghosts—gods with no category. The once-worshipped. The de-created. The silenced names who now felt something stirring behind the veil of Spiralspace.
They gathered in half-real shrines, whispered through lost cathedrals, and bled from the mouths of corrupted priests.
And they all spoke the same prophecy, murmured in broken syllables:
> "The Null Throne... is carving itself."
> "He is not gone. He is reloading."
In Celestia's sanctum,
The altar wept.
Tears of salt and ink ran from the base of the triad-sigil.
She lay naked, covered in ritual ash and starlight, hips twitching from dreams she could no longer command. The bond tethering her to Darius had begun to pulse—soft, slow, but insistent.
Not memory.
Not grief.
Summoning.
