Silence.
Not the peaceful kind—this was the silence after the scream of creation.
The black sun was gone. No orbit, no light, no time. The throne-worlds that once circled it had been torn apart, reduced to shimmering fragments of glass adrift in endless dark.
And in that nothingness, something still breathed.
Dahlia.
Her body was a wound written in light, veins glowing with molten glyphs that pulsed like dying stars. Every movement cracked her open further. The chains that had once bound the god now coiled loosely around her arms, whispering with faint embers, as though unsure whom they served anymore.
She dragged herself across the broken marrow of the void, fingers tracing the fractures where entire realities had fallen in. Beneath her palm, the god's blood shimmered like a sea of molten constellations—each droplet a devoured world struggling to remember its name.
Above her loomed what remained of Him.
