Whenever they lifted their faces and gazed upward—toward the stars scattered across the darkness of night, or toward the dense masses of clouds choking the brightness of morning—never once did it occur to them that the sky itself could grow tired. That it might become weary, indifferent, or even collapse, refusing to display its splendor as it once had.
In those days, such a thought did not exist.
Whether they were slaves resting their bruised bodies, farmers measuring time through shifting seasons, knights swearing vows beneath open horizons, bandits laughing at fate, nobles praising the heavens in verse, or kings ruling from lofty thrones, none among them ever forgot what the sky had shown since the beginning. It was vast, eternal, unquestionable. A presence above all things, silent yet absolute.
No one imagined it could break.
Then the sky fractured.
At first, the change was subtle—an unease spreading across the heavens like a tremor without origin. Light bent unnaturally. The stars flickered, losing their clarity. Clouds froze mid-drift as if held by an unseen hand. The firmament quivered again and again, like a wound struggling to stay closed.
And then it gave way.
The sky split apart with a roar that drowned mountains, seas, and thunder alike. From that rupture, countless shards cascaded downward, raining upon the world below. Crystalline fragments, radiant and sharp, fell across plains and cities, forests and oceans, glittering as they descended toward every living thing beneath the broken heavens.
Screams followed.
Panic swept through streets and fields as people fled without direction. Prayers were shouted, abandoned halfway through sentences. Mothers shielded their children with shaking arms. Soldiers raised weapons that meant nothing against a collapsing sky. Scholars declared that the final hour had arrived, convinced that extinction itself had finally come to claim the world.
Yet annihilation did not follow.
The land endured. Humanity remained.
The shards did not burn the earth. They did not poison water or air. Instead, those who touched them felt warmth rather than pain. Wounds sealed themselves. Strength surged through tired limbs. Crops grew richer. Steel hardened beyond expectation. Minds sharpened. Entire cities flourished, expanding faster than ever recorded.
The fragments of the Sky became miracles.
People lived on. They thrived. They celebrated.
Happier lives emerged.
Greater wealth followed.
Power unlike anything before spread across the land.
All of it traced back to those glittering remnants that fell from above.
Two centuries passed.
Generations were born into a world reshaped by crystal radiance. Streets glowed faintly at night. Towers shimmered with embedded shards. Children learned early that the Sky had gifted humanity strength, and that this strength defined their era.
Until the price revealed itself.
Slowly, quietly, without warning, the fragments began to change their nature.
Walls laced with crystal spread like veins beneath stone. Armor fused with flesh, refusing removal. Hands stiffened. Joints resisted motion. Skin hardened, losing warmth. Those who relied most heavily on the shards noticed numbness creeping into their bodies, followed by stiffness that no medicine could ease.
What once empowered them now consumed them.
Homes turned into cages. Tools clung to their wielders. Bones calcified. Limbs locked in place. Voices faltered as jaws resisted movement. Memories dulled. Emotions faded. Something unseen yet vital began slipping away, as though the soul itself were slowly being encased alongside muscle and bone.
Only then did understanding arrive.
The fragments were not salvation alone.
They were never free of consequence.
They gnawed at every layer of existence—at livelihoods, at bodies, and perhaps most cruelly, at the essence of being human.
Isaiah named it the Sky's curse.
To those who followed Isaiah, crystallization was punishment. Proof that humanity had overstepped its place, reached beyond its limits, and now faced judgment for its arrogance. The shards were reminders that mortals were never meant to hold divine remnants without suffering.
Abimalech called it the Sky's blessing.
To Abimalech and his adherents, the transformation represented evolution. The hardening of flesh was not decay, but refinement. Sacrifice was necessary, they claimed, for order, strength, and survival in a world that demanded power.
Their disagreement never ceased.
Arguments turned to decrees. Decrees turned to steel. Steel drew blood.
For fifty years, conflict scarred the land. Armies marched beneath banners etched with crystal symbols. Cities burned in the name of doctrine. Walls collapsed beneath sieges justified by faith. Thousands perished. Thousands more were chained into servitude. Nations crumbled, crushed between opposing truths that allowed no compromise.
Through it all, the suffering called upward.
Cries echoed toward the broken heavens. Laments rose from frozen battlefields. Prayers spilled from lips stiffened by encroaching crystal.
They begged the Sky that once watched over them. They pleaded with the force that had reshaped their world. They demanded meaning for their agony.
But nothing answered.
The sky offered no voice. No sign. No mercy.
It remained distant, silent, unmoved.
And so the world continued to harden—city after city, body after body, thought after thought—beneath an unresponsive heaven.
There was no answer.