In the realm of Nyx, where darkness wasn't the absence of light but the presence of something far older and more fundamental, three goddesses watched Olympus tear itself apart.
The realm itself defied description in any language mortals—or even most gods—could understand. It wasn't black. Black was a color, and this place existed before color had been invented. It was the concept of space between stars given form, the quiet pause between one heartbeat and the next, the gentle darkness behind closed eyelids when sleep finally came.
Floating islands of crystallized night drifted through an endless expanse that somehow felt both infinite and intimate.
Stars hung like scattered diamonds, but these weren't distant suns—they were memories of light, preserved in amber-dark eternity. The air itself whispered with the voices of dreams that had never quite made it to waking.
