The silence that followed was not the Architect's silence. That had been a void, an active negation, a hunger. This silence was different. It was the silence of a breath held, of a world waiting, of a page freshly turned. It was full of potential.
The Spire did not crumble or explode. It unwove itself. The black, liquid material, now stripped of its malevolent purpose, softened, flowing away like ink in clear water. The oppressive structure dissolved into shimmering motes of light that rose gently upwards, joining the newborn symphony above. The maelstrom was gone. In its place was a vast, open sky, the color of a healing bruise slowly softening to dawn.
