The first tremor spread quietly.
It wasn't sound. It wasn't sight. It wasn't anything a mortal mind could catch. It was older than that.
A breath from the Gate reached beyond stars, sliding through folds of existence that hadn't been touched in millennia. To most, it was nothing. A passing cold wind. A ripple across some forgotten ocean. But to the Progenitors—the first—there was no mistaking it.
The adversaries had returned.
Michael opened his eyes first.
The Celestial Progenitor had been silent for ages, his gaze fixed inward, his wings folded like monuments of light. For him, centuries passed like moments, but this—this shook even his stillness. He knew that aura. He had fought it before.
And once, it nearly killed him.
A soft exhale left his lips, the faintest shift of his jaw betraying something like annoyance—or was it resignation? He closed his eyes again, but the glow behind them had sharpened.
The world was moving again.
