The Herald descended like a plague from the Gate—its wings unfurling in spasmodic jerks, made not of flesh or feather, but of cursed script and ancient prophecies long buried. Its presence bent gravity. Time felt… slowed, wrong. The shrine groaned under its weight, and stone cracked as the air thickened.
Its voice wasn't heard—it was felt, deep in the marrow:
> "You should not have opened the door."
And then it screamed.
A soundless roar that shook every nerve in Darian's body, a shriek that bypassed ears and burrowed straight into the soul. Alen dropped to his knees, nose bleeding, muttering prayers turned to gibberish. Nox's shadow magic reacted instinctively, lashing out like a thousand blades—but it struck nothing.
The Herald didn't exist in one form.
It flickered—between places, shapes, times.
Darian had no time to hesitate.
He launched himself forward.
