The world had not yet healed from Ravh'Zereth's scream.
Even now, hours—or centuries—after that impossible sound, the land still shuddered like a wounded creature. Rivers pulsed black; the horizon bled light. The air itself seemed unsure whether it should burn or breathe.
Sid stood at the edge of what used to be a valley. It was now a bowl of fractured glass, reflecting a sky that didn't agree with itself. His hands trembled—not from exhaustion, but from what he had seen. From what he had heard.
"I am you," the demon had said.
And part of him still believed it.
Nox knelt nearby, running his fingers through the ashen soil. His face, pale and unreadable, was caught between guilt and calculation. Around them, silence hung thick as smoke.
Then, the air split.
No thunder. No flame. Just a vertical tear in the sky—a seam unzipping the world's canvas. From within, golden veins spread outward, shedding flakes of light that fell like dying stars.
And from that wound, a voice older than sound itself spoke.
"You stand before what remains of divinity."
The ground bowed. The trees, those that hadn't burned, folded their branches. Even the Hollowed shadows fled into cracks.
Eryon descended.
He was not what the scriptures had promised.
Not radiant, not perfect. He was weary light in a fraying shape — a body sculpted from sunfire and scars, every inch speaking of old wars and older regrets. His eyes were the color of dying dawns. When he breathed, galaxies shivered.
Sid's knees nearly buckled under the weight of that presence. Yet it wasn't awe he felt — it was anger. The same kind that burns quietly in the chest, refusing to bow.
Nox rose beside him, every muscle tight. "Eryon," he said softly. "First Flame."
Eryon's gaze shifted toward him. The tone that followed wasn't thunder — it was tired.
"You kept your promise, little guardian. You watched. You waited. You lied."
Sid's head snapped toward Nox. "Lied?"
Nox didn't deny it. His jaw clenched. "He's right. I was ordered to shape you, Sid — not protect you. To prepare you for a role the gods couldn't play anymore."
Eryon stepped closer, each footfall rewriting the ground from glass to gold. "We needed a vessel who could withstand what we could not. The daemon's scream tore the heavens once before. If it rose again unchecked, the Void Sovereign would awaken."
Sid's voice came out hoarse. "The Void… Sovereign?"
The god's face darkened, light dimming around him. "The one that predates flame, form, and will. Ravh'Zereth was never evil by nature — he was the last chain that held that hunger back. We sealed him not because he defied us, but because we feared what would happen when his watch ended."
Sid froze. The words rolled through him like molten lead.
"You sealed your protector."
"Because he was becoming something we couldn't control," Eryon said, almost whispering. "Fear makes gods cowardly. Pride makes them cruel. Between those two, we created every sin."
Silence again.
Even the broken wind dared not move.
Sid's eyes burned — not with fire, but with clarity.
"All this time… you told the world you were guardians. But you were just scared children hiding behind the word 'order.'"
Eryon looked away. His outline flickered. "Do not mistake cowardice for malice, boy. We tried to hold the world together after creation broke itself. The cost... "
"...was everyone else's freedom," Sid snapped. "Everyone's choice. Ravh'Zereth's. Mine."
The god's glow dimmed further. For the first time, Sid saw fear in divine eyes — a quiet, human kind of fear. The kind that knows its time is ending.
Nox exhaled shakily. "He's telling the truth. I was trained under them. The First Circle. They wanted a fallback — a vessel that could end or reforge the Seal if the gods fell."
His gaze flicked to Sid. "That vessel was always meant to be you."
Sid's heart pounded. "So all of it... my power, my chains, even the demon's mark... was planned."
Eryon shook his head slowly. "Not planned. Prayed for. We gambled that your existence would outlast our failure."
Sid's fists clenched. "And what do you want from me now?"
Eryon's eyes — vast and sorrowful — met his. "To learn from our terror. To do what gods could not."
Sid almost laughed, hollow and sharp. "You want me to clean up your mistakes."
"I want you to understand them," Eryon said simply. "You ask what the enemy is. It is not Ravh'Zereth. Not Velgrin. Not even us. It is the fear that bends creation toward chains."
The air trembled on that word.
Chains.
They glowed faintly around Sid's wrists, those remnants of his restraint — no longer binding him, but reminding him. He looked at Eryon, then Nox, then the ruined valley stretching behind them.
"Fear," he repeated softly. "That's the god who still rules."
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Eryon's light began to flicker, the god's form thinning into dust motes and fading echoes.
"Perhaps," the voice said as it dissolved, "you were never meant to worship us. Only to surpass us."
And then he was gone.
No thunder, no hymn — only silence, heavy and ancient.
Sid stood there, staring at the spot where a god had faded, feeling more mortal than ever and more infinite at once.
Nox placed a hand on his shoulder. "You understand now, don't you?"
Sid nodded slowly, eyes fixed on the horizon.
"Yeah," he said. "The gods feared what they didn't understand. Velgrin wants to destroy what he fears. Ravh'Zereth wants to devour what he fears."
He looked down at his trembling hand.
"I'll do something none of them could. I'll face it."
The wind shifted, carrying the faint scent of ash and dawn.
Far above, where Eryon had vanished, the crack in the sky pulsed once — faintly — as if a dying god had smiled.