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The sky screamed again.
It wasn't thunder. Not this time.
Raen stood amidst the ruins of the Soul Spiral, his blade—Eidenscourge—dripping with violet ichor from the godspawn he'd just slain. But he didn't hear the wind anymore. Not the breathing of the world. Not even the Threadrift's whispers.
He heard a boy weep.
And the world bent in response.
Lyra stumbled behind him, coughing blood. "Raen… something's wrong. The stars are… cracking."
He turned. She wasn't hallucinating.
The firmament itself splintered like mirror glass, and from the tear—a tower descended. Spiral. Black. Howling with memories that didn't belong to this universe.
No, Raen thought.
But his thoughts were drowned by the voice.
> "I've come home."
The voice belonged to a boy.
And from the black wound in the sky, a figure descended—floating, barefoot, with skin pale as bone and rune-marks trailing down both arms. His eyes were endless. Not human. Not divine. Not demonic.
They were lonely.
