It began with a single word.
Scrawled across a playground stone by a child who had never read Caelum's doctrines. Never heard of Sera Vex. Never studied rebellion.
They just felt something in the world that needed answering.
The word was:
"Enough."
Not enough as surrender.
Not enough as complaint.
Enough—as balance. As breath.
The teacher saw it first.
She didn't erase it.
She circled it in ink.
Later that week, it appeared on a mural: "We are enough." Then in a letter passed between strangers: "Enough grief. Enough fire. Enough silence." Then on festival lanterns in Vendrael: "Carry enough to share."
No one claimed it.
No one codified it.
And yet, across cities, cultures, and echoing ruins, the word bloomed—adapted, translated, carried in rhythm and ritual.
Even Kael Dross, now quieted, once muttered: "They chose a word. Not a name. I never stood a chance."
Sera Vex found it written in dust at the base of an old archive.
She added one phrase beside it:
"Enough doesn't mean ending. It means we finally begin differently."
The devil passed by days later and grinned.
"You started a revolution with a child's chalk."
Sera replied:
"Maybe this time, the revolution doesn't burn."
And the wind carried the word—
Not to conquer.
But to remind.