The sky above the Chains was not meant to move.
It had hung for centuries like cracked glass, eternal, unmoving, silent.
But today, it shifted.
Not from wind.
Not from storm.
But from a silence so deep, so heavy, that even the clouds broke apart in fear.
It began at dawn.
The city awoke to an absence not of light, but of noise.
No birds.
No machines.
No footfalls.
Even the wind dared not speak.
And atop the ruined bell tower in the heart of the Wastes stood a figure
Cloaked in grey.
Crowned in bone.
Eyes hollow, yet burning with purpose.
Nihil.
He did not shout.
He did not raise banners or blow horns.
He simply stood—arms spread wide, gaze cast over the city that had once named him nothing.
And behind him, rising from rooftops, windows, tunnels, sewers
Came his Echoes.
Hundreds now.
Each with a mark carved in ash on their brow.
Each cloaked in silence, the void of guilt hollowed out behind their eyes.
Not dead.
Not enslaved.
Just… purposed.
They began to move.
Not in attack.
Not in parade.
In stillness.
Thousands across the city watched as the Echoes appeared and knelt in unison.
Every sector.
Every quarter.
Every ruin.
They placed their palms on the ground.
And bowed their heads.
Then… they stopped breathing.
For three minutes, the city held its breath.
Every sound died.
Even the Warden's tower shook.
The birds fell from the sky.
The water in the fountains froze mid-ripple.
The glass in the cathedral windows shattered.
And from every direction, from every hollow corner, the name rose, unspoken but undeniable:
Nihil.
This was not rebellion.
It was not revolution.
It was doctrine.
Inside the Chainspire, the Warden rose from his seat.
The throne behind him cracked.
He looked out over the shifting city, and for the first time in two lifetimes, he whispered:
"He has no weapons."
"He has no armies."
"He has no gods behind him."
A steward dared to speak. "Then why do we feel fear, my lord?"
The Warden did not answer.
He only turned to the wall behind him.
Where once his own doctrine had been carved in chains
Now burned a single symbol, scorched into the blackstone overnight:
A hollow crown.
Wreathed in ash.
Dripping silence.
Far below, Nihil opened his eyes.
The silence lifted.
And the world exhaled in terror.
He had not preached.
He had not promised.
He had not begged.
And yet, that morning, more than five thousand left the temples of the Warden behind.
They carved their names into the stone and walked into the ruins, into the grey, toward the man who had shown them no salvation.
Only truth.
Only purpose.
Only silence.