In the suffocating silence of N'kai, where the concept of "Action" went to die, Hecate felt the freezing lethargy of the Sleeper attempting to calcify her soul.
Her torches were mere sparks, her limbs felt like leaden weights, and the bloated, clawed hand of Tsathoggua was closing around her existence.
'So this is how it ends,' she thought, dimly. 'I expected to die from fire of Tartarus, to die from failure of her own sorcery, to die because she defied the author... I didn't expect to die in silence. A god reduced to an object, like a thought allowed to finish itself and then stop.'
Her torches flickered again, barely more than dying embers.
Once, they had lit crossroads across worlds.
Once, mortals had prayed to them with trembling voices.
Now they felt heavy and burdensome, as if the act of holding light itself was an indulgence this place no longer permitted.
