The world convulses.
Time buckles, claws scraping backward through reality, desperate to undo what I've become.
The Old Gods chant in languages older than death.
Spells meant to erase.
Meant to sever soul from memory, magic from meaning.
But I am not Lyrielle.
Not Lyraxis.
Not even the myth they feared.
I am Elóranth.
And I do not bow to time.
They twist the sky.
Stars vanish.
Mountains rewind into stone.
Empires collapse into dust.
They're rewriting the world to a version without me.
"Erase her!" the Third God howls.
"Return the world to balance!"
But the creature beside me only smirks.
His voice cuts through their spell like a dagger of gravity:
"Balance was her. You tipped the scale when you silenced her name."
I raise one hand.
Only one.
And everything pauses.
Because I remember how to stop time.
Not with magic. Not with force.
With command.
I speak a word the universe has no choice but to obey:
"Still."
The Old Gods freeze.
Even time holds its breath.
And in that silence I unwrite their rewrite.
My fingers carve fire through the sky.
Symbols burn into existence sigils older than law.
The gods scream.
They try to move.
Try to flee.
But I've turned possibility into prison.
"You want a world without me?" I whisper.
"Then let's see if you can survive it."
I don't erase them.
That would be mercy.
I erase their memory from fate.
The universe forgets they were ever worshipped.
Their temples collapse in echoes.
Their names become wind.
Their legacy becomes mine.
The world restarts.
But it remembers me.
Because I am no longer reborn.
I am returned.