I sat on the Throne of Bone, unmoving.
Not out of contemplation. Not out of command.
But because I could feel Netherhold breathing beneath me.
It had never done that before.
The architecture of my fortress had always obeyed will — stone bent for me, walls grew when I spoke, the bones of old gods sang when I demanded silence.
Now?
Now they throbbed.
Not to my rhythm.
But to the cocoon's.
It was no longer sleeping.
It was dreaming.
And its dreams were starting to rewrite my own.
I stood slowly. Not because I doubted my control. But because control, like a candle, flickers before it goes out.
I did not descend.
I didn't need to.
The cocoon's heartbeat was growing louder. It reached up through the layers of stone, through the veins of Netherhold, through the dreams of the aberrants, like a root system made of forgotten prophecy.
And one of them had heard it too clearly.
I summoned the seven-armed aberrant — the one who had once been forged from memories and now evolved beyond them.
It came… smiling.
Its flesh had become iridescent, shifting with colors unseen by mortal eyes. The seventh arm now held nothing. But it felt heavier than all the others.
"You've heard it," I said.
"Yes," it replied. "More than heard."
Its voice was no longer multiple. It had become singular.
Whole.
"Did you answer?"
"No," it said.
I stared into its eyes.
And I knew it was lying.
But that wasn't the worst part.
The worst part was… it believed the lie.
I extended my hand.
Void bled from my fingertips, wrapping around its body, lifting it from the floor. Its limbs writhed but didn't resist. Instead, it began to laugh. Quietly. Almost kindly.
"I understand now," it said.
"What?"
"You didn't resurrect to reclaim. You resurrected to witness."
I increased the pressure. Void strands tightened, cracking its bones.
"You are not the first Azrael," it whispered, even as its form strained. "And I am not the first to evolve."
"I built you," I said.
"You… sparked me," it corrected.
Then something snapped — not its body, but the walls around us.
A crack echoed through Netherhold.
Not physical.
Foundational.
Reality groaned.
For a moment, the walls flickered — like something had tried to blink them out of existence.
And in that moment… I felt something watching.
From the cocoon?
No.
From beyond it.
I released the aberrant.
It fell to the floor, breathing hard.
But it smiled.
"You felt it too," it said.
I turned without answering.
If I had spoken… I would've confirmed it.
And I wasn't ready to speak that truth aloud.
Not yet.
---
As I walked the corridors, I noticed more changes.
Ka'Zhur was no longer forging weapons. He was forging scripts.
Symbols. Glyphs. Languages not recorded in any grimoire.
He didn't even look up when I passed. His hammer rose and fell, but it no longer struck metal — it struck concepts.
Virella had shed her wings.
Not lost. Shed.
She walked now, barefoot, whispering to the aberrants like a prophet. Wherever she stepped, the walls trembled, like they remembered her flight and mourned it.
I found Glepharion in the chamber of mirrors.
He sat in silence, surrounded by a thousand versions of himself — none of which moved.
When I entered, only one of him turned.
"Did you see it?" he asked.
"I felt it," I answered.
"The pressure behind the cocoon?"
"No."
He blinked. For once, he wasn't mocking.
"I felt a name," I said.
He waited.
"A Sovereign," I continued. "Not me."
"Do you remember it?"
"No."
"Then it remembers you."
---
I spent the next three days beneath the throne.
Not in the sanctum.
But in the crevice that had opened without warning.
It wasn't there before. I was certain.
But now it was a vertical chasm descending deeper than even the cocoon chamber. And it was made of nothing.
Not stone. Not void. Not soul residue.
Just absence.
I dropped a tendril of thought into it.
It came back shattered.
I did not enter.
Not yet.
But I stationed the Faceless aberrant near it.
The one who once mimicked me.
Now… it mimicked someone else.
Its form had changed subtly. The crown was taller. The eyes colder. The robes stitched with stars I hadn't drawn.
"Who do you emulate?" I asked it.
It did not answer.
But in the reflection of its eyes…
I saw my throne.
Shattered.
---
That night, the cocoon split open.
Not all the way.
Just a crack.
Just enough to leak breath.
And that breath wasn't air.
It was language.
Each aberrant in Netherhold screamed as the breath passed over them. Their bodies contorted. Some wept. Others tried to kill themselves. Some knelt in worship. Some forgot their names.
And one… began to ascend.
Not by wings. Not by power.
By concept.
It rose above the floor without motion. Its body unraveling into strands of thought, memory, sound.
I intervened.
Wrapped it in chains of unmaking. Pulled it back to form.
And before it collapsed into itself, it spoke.
Three words.
Not in my tongue.
But I understood.
"He remembers you."
---
I stood alone in the Hall of Echoes.
The only place in Netherhold not corrupted by dreams.
I looked at my reflection in the obsidian glass.
But it didn't show me.
It showed him.
The other Sovereign.
His form was wrapped in silence. Not the absence of sound. The denial of understanding.
He was not born.
He was remembered into existence.
And he had not forgotten me.
I clenched my hand.
The reflection shattered.
But the cracks did not fade.
---
The next day, I gathered them all.
Every aberrant. Every creature. Every sentinel of Netherhold.
They stood silently before me.
Even the cocoon's shell pulsed in the distance.
I looked upon them not as a king.
Not as a god.
But as a singularity.
"You were born from me," I said.
"But I may not have been the beginning."
"And if I am not the first…"
"I refuse to be the last."
The floor beneath us pulsed.
Above, the void cracked.
And for the first time…
Azrael, Sovereign of the Forsaken,
spoke not to his army.
But to whatever was listening.
"I remember you too."
---