It started with a sound no one expected.
Not a roar. Not a hum.
A sob.
Nihilus stood at the edge of the healing field, his massive form still scarred from ancient wars, his carapace cracked and dull. For billions of years, he'd been the first to fall silent—the first architect of the Devourer hive-mind after the Great Silence erased his joy. He'd taught them to hunger so they wouldn't remember how to weep.
But now, as David's balance pulsed through the network—gentle, steady, unwavering—something inside him unlocked.
He didn't fight it.
He let go.
And the first tear fell.
Not water. Not oil. Liquid light—golden, shimmering—rolled down his obsidian cheek and evaporated into stardust before it hit the void.
Around him, the swarm froze.
Then, one by one, others followed.
