The scream of the land did not stop.
It cleaved through the sky like a curse remembered too late—ripping open the heavens with a fury too ancient for language. It was not thunder, though it broke the world as if it were. It was not mere wind, though it howled with the ferocity of storms that had no names. This was something deeper. Older. A voice that belonged not to gods or monsters, but to the world itself—mourning, raging, remembering. It roared with the sound of every betrayal buried in time. With the pain of kingdoms razed, of oaths broken in silence. A cry of existence itself unraveling, a bellow from a god not reborn in grace—but exhumed in wrath.
