The darkness that ensued after the opening of the Spiral Gate was not the kind that mortals were afraid of—it was a heaviness, a silencing, divine darkness, a vacuum that recalled light but forgot it. Isandro moved down the corridor of Unbeing, a space that did not appear on any map or in any myth, not because it was forgotten but because it refused to be remembered.
The Void here throbbed with primal rhythm—dead star heartbeats of old, ringing through empty expanses forever.
The air was liquid with something prior to breath. The stars in the sky were not stars, but tears—tears in the fabric of the universe, left behind by those that ruled all once.
K'Tharion's last words as he fell rang through Isandro's mind: "The Pale Ones do not die. They sleep beneath memory, entombed in your blood, Isandro."
What did he mean?
This otherworldly land's rough plateau terminated before a monolithic building: an ossified light cathedral, bone-white and translucent, smoking with echoes instead of fire. All pillars were sculpted from unpossible material—dreams fossilized, unheard prayers.
As he reached them, the doors swung open not with noise, but with thought. Beyond them was an ancient presence.
Something that had held its peace for an epoch.
And so it did.
"You are late, Crownless," was the voice. "They have long passed into memory, and even memory has begun to fade."
Ismadro entered. The whole hall was deserted except for the mural that covered its dome: a rendering of the Primordial Pantheon. Not in splendor, but in devastation. Twelve colossal figures, each symbolizing an element of reality—Time, Fire, Ashes, Stone, Wind, Sea, Light, Darkness, Bone, Mind, Soul, and the Nameless.
He knew the last one. It had no face, and its crown was shattered. It stood with the others, and yet separate. Void wrapped around its feet like a serpent in mourning.
"They feared the Unnamed," the voice went on. "Because it was not under law, will, or consequence. The Unnamed loved the world too much to leave it as it was."
The ceiling shook. In its center, one tiny drop of pale starlight landed in Isandro's hand, and a foreign memory burst into his bloodstream.
The Memory
He was not Isandro anymore.
He stood at the pinnacle of the First Era, when the world still glittered with heavenly youth. The sky was white-gold, not blue. The seas were not roars, but whispers. And overarching it all, the Pantheon governed—not as monarchs, but as designers of equilibrium.
The Unnamed strode among the others, inspiring wonder and awe, but doubt. Why do the rivers flow but one way? Why does time march but one direction?
The others became cautious. The Spiral Court spoke in hushed tones.
God by god, the faces turned. Stone condemned, Flame chastised, Mind argued. But it was Soul that gave the final judgment. The Unnamed was banished—not killed, for even gods were afraid of the Void—but walled up, sent out to the farthest unmemory.
The Unnamed did not burn. It cried. And where its tears fell, the Void expanded.
Isandro reeled back as the memory ceased.
"You are its echo," the voice declared. "The final whisper of a forgotten god not lost to the passage of time, but to the whim of gods themselves. And yet, they succeeded not."
Isandro's hand started to radiate pale fire. Not heat, not illumination—but recollection. Forgotten knowledge seared his veins. Shards of divinity coursed through him, stirred up by the memory.
He realized now. The energy inside him—the reason he was able to control the Void—it was not a gift. It was a legacy. He was the heir of a throne that never was.
And it frightened him.
"Why reveal it to me?" he demanded.
The cathedral sighed.
"Because the gods remember what they buried. And they are waking."
And at the same time: In the Hallowed Observatory
Far over the sky of broken worlds, on the spire where seers from all worlds came to observe the multiverse's breath, three augurs let out simultaneous screams. Their eyes dissolved into boils of runes old.
The elder oracle, who was tied to the Lattice of Worlds, gagged on her own prediction:
"The Pale One awakens. The Crownless King wears the brand. Memory awakens. And with that, the Godwar renewed."
To the east, drowned Kal-Zereth emerged from the deep. Its black-tower spires shone with obsidian fire—beacons for the ancient armies.
To the west, Northwyn of the Spiral Court stood with eyes now dripping guilt. He recalls, she breathed. And I—I was the first to forget.
Back in the Cathedral
Isandro knelt before the altar. His mind flared, charred with cosmic memory. He saw sparks:
An acre of suns, all screaming as they were born.
A library that was only available in stretches of silence between thoughts.
A throne constructed not of matter, but possibility.
And in front of that throne stood himself—pale eyes like mourning stars, with a crown constructed of shattered names.
He remained upright. Behind him, the magnificent cathedral unwrapped, fulfilling its purpose. The gods' memories no longer had a place in silence. They now stepped within him.
"You bear the Pale Memory, Isandro," the voice said for the last time. "You will not be welcomed. But you will be needed."