The world ended at the surface of the Anvil. Not with a bang, but with a terrible, slow absorption. The silver sphere was not a thing of light, but of absolute consumption. It was the mouth of silence, and it was hungry.
The triad stood before it, their combined form—the Chord—a fragile vessel of light and memory in the face of this ultimate negation. The storm of dying music still raged around them, but here, at the epicenter, there was a pocket of unnatural calm. The only sound was a low, sub-audible hum from the Anvil, a vibration that felt like the death of hope itself.
