The world did not end in fire.
It ended in silence.
When the storm struck the sea, it did not roar, scream, or shatter. It vanished—abruptly, absolutely. As though the very concept of sound had been exiled from the realm of existence, a pulse of power erupted that was too vast to echo, too final to resist. The tidal wave that had risen like a cathedral of fury—monumental, defiant—folded inward upon itself, collapsing under the weight of something far older than magic, more absolute than wrath. A leviathan's roar—unheard, but deeply remembered—swallowed the wave whole. There was no crash, no thunderous climax, no triumphant explosion of fury. Only stillness. Terrible, sacred stillness. The kind that stretches across aeons, swallowing time and memory and voice.
