The sky above Vaingall's hallowed sanctuary began to change in a way that defied the realm's chaotic norms.
A slit tore open in the fabric of reality, not with the violent rip of a rift or the bleeding wound of entropy, but a subtle, insidious parting, as if the heavens themselves were corroding from within.
White seeped from the edges, a pure, blinding luminescence that eroded the colors around it, turning the indigo twilight to pallid gray, the stars fading like ink washed away by water.
The air grew thick with an otherworldly hum, a vibration that resonated in the bones, carrying whispers of praise and prayer from unseen sources.
Eerie phantoms materialized in the sanctuary's periphery—alien-like entities, translucent and formless at first, coalescing into shapes that defied biology—elongated limbs twisting into spirals, eyes like fractured prisms reflecting infinite voids, bodies that phased between solid and ethereal.
