The air tasted like ash and blood.
Smoke curled across the ruins of a desecrated temple once devoted to the Forgotten Moon, where Nyx now stood—alone. Her shadow flickered unnaturally against the marble walls, refusing to align with the light. The temple groaned under the pressure of her presence, and the script-seals carved into the pillars bled obsidian ichor.
She had returned to the birthplace of her erasure.
Not her birth.
Her unmaking.
"Come," whispered a voice only she could hear. "Take it back. Your name… your truth…"
Nyx stepped into the sanctum's center. Runes glowed beneath her bare feet—each pulse dragging forth echoes of an identity long severed. The temperature dropped. Reality buckled.
There, embedded in the spine of a shattered statue, was the Blade of the Last Name.
