Reality shattered. The stable, if oppressive, chamber of the Spire dissolved into a screaming, formless void. There was no up or down, no solid ground, only a maelstrom of raw, disintegrating music. It was the sound of the world being unmade—the joyous chorus of the sea twisted into a shriek, the deep hum of mountains ground into a painful whine, the delicate melodies of forgotten memories ripped into dissonant shreds. This was the Anvil's work, the brutal forge where the Symphony of Existence was being hammered into silence.
