The slow, rhythmic drip from the inverted spire was a constant, soul-crushing assault. Each drop that fell was a conceptual hammer blow, and Andrew could feel the shimmering key in his hand weakening with every one.
He felt a fragment of its intricate lattice dissolve, and in his mind, he sensed the fading memory of a lost civilization's primary color, a hue that had not existed in a thousand eons. The Herald of Nothing was relentless, a force of nature that cared nothing for his presence, only for the task of unmaking.
Andrew knew his exhaustion was a dangerous weakness here, but his fear had given way to a fierce, manic clarity. His physical fatigue, a dull, persistent ache in his muscles, seemed insignificant compared to the existential dread that pressed in on him. He was a creator in a place of pure negation, and the only way to win this was to fight its rules with his own. He would not just protect the key; he would make it impossible to unmake.
