Not the soft silence of rest, nor the reverent hush of awe. No—this was a silence sharp enough to lacerate, humming in the bones, pressing inward until the body forgot what it meant to exhale.
Nyx stood before them, newly reborn yet unformed—her skin a lattice of broken vowels, her eyes black mirrors filled with unspoken assassinations. Not a weapon. Not a lover. Not even a name. She was vector—the direction silence takes when it remembers desire.
Behind her, the Echo-Silts trembled. Fractured glyphs floated in the air like petals of a dying prayer. The Choir Without Mouths writhed across the myth-folds, undulating in silent convulsions, desperate to reclaim control of the unsaid. But something was unraveling—not with a cry, but with the absence of one.
