The veil of chaotic, prismatic light dissolved, retreating like a tide to reveal the world beneath. The first thing the creature's newly focused eyes perceived was a ceiling. It was arched and ancient, hewn from dark, glossy stone that swallowed the light of flickering braziers, their flames casting long, dancing shadows. The air, once a meaningless hum, now carried a tangible weight and substance.
Slowly, its gaze drifted, taking in the surroundings. It was a chamber of impossible proportions, vast and cavernous. Shelves carved from the same dark stone groaned under the weight of their contents: crumbling parchment scrolls, their edges burnt and brittle; strange, geometric instruments of polished brass and obsidian that clicked and whirred softly; and rows upon rows of glass vials containing liquids that glowed with their own sickly, phosphorescent life—swirling greens, pulsating violets, and a deep, bloody crimson that seemed to watch back.
A new, complex assault of sensations washed over it. Smell. The air was thick with a cloying cocktail of odors: the acrid tang of ozone and hot metal, the ancient dust of forgotten knowledge, the cloying sweetness of decayed flowers, and beneath it all, the coppery scent of old blood. It was overwhelming. Not just the smells, but everything. The cool, unyielding stone against its bare back, the prickle of dry air on its skin, the thunderous, rhythmic pulse of its own heart in its ears—it was experiencing a universe of input all at once, a sensory deluge that threatened to shatter its nascent consciousness. In the past, during its miraculous birth, each new sense had arrived in isolation. Now, they crashed together in a deafening symphony of being.
But the creature's attention, reeling and fragile, was seized by the figure standing before it.
A figure standing in the dark, shadows seemed to recoil around him . The figure was silent, not even the sound of his breathing could be heart but a strange triumphant tension radiated from them like heat from a forge. Their presence was not merely felt; it was an immense, suffocating pressure that seemed to warp the very space around them, a gravitational pull that made the air thick and hard to breathe. The creature felt a primal, instinctual fear—the fear of a mouse realizing it is in the same room as a sleeping dragon.
And then, there was the mask they were wearing.
It was a face of pure, featureless obsidian, so dark it seemed to be a tear in reality itself. This was no mere carving. It was a dark mask in the image of a nebulous dark demon , and it was alive with subtle, terrifying motion. Across its smooth, impenetrable surface, faint silver lines shifted and flowed like distant galaxies or the shimmering threads of a cosmic web. It did not cover the figure face; but instead it replaced it completely, presenting a visage of absolute, emotionless void. It was the face of a principle, not a person—the face of cold, uncaring creation and inevitable unraveling. To look upon it was to feel infinitely small and utterly known.
'...How powerful...' The thought was a whimper in the storm of the creature's mind. It was still reeling from the cataclysm of its own birth, and now this… this entity stood before it, a walking embodiment of dominion.
A deeper, more insidious madness clawed at the edges of its awareness. 'How do I know concepts like "worlds" and "color"?'
It had wondered this very thought since the fifth miracle –the mind– had came. How did it possess a library of knowledge without ever having lived? How did it understand air, power, language? It was as if The architecture of reality seemed pre-installed in its soul, a ghost of a history it never lived.
'Perhaps I had been something once... and I had simply have forgotten.'
The theory was a fragile raft in an ocean of uncertainty, but it was all it had.
The masked figure seemed to finally note the full focus of its gaze. The triumphant stillness broke as they took a slow, deliberate step toward the stone slab where the creature lay, its limbs freed from restraints it never knew bound it.
"Ah," the masked demon reathed, his voice a low, resonant vibration that hummed in the creature's bones. It was not the cheerful exclamation of before, but the reverent, hungry whisper of a fanatic before a holy relic. "How marvelous. You are truly everything I envisioned. More. A perfect synthesis. A testament written in flesh and soul just as weaver would have envisioned."
Their hand, sheathed in dark leather, reached out, not to touch, but to hover just above the creature's chest, as if feeling the heat of a sacred flame. "I would expect nothing less from my ultimate act of defiance."
The creature's brow, smooth and unlined, furrowed in a gesture that felt both alien and instinctive. Its voice, when it came, was a dry, rasping thing, the friction of disused vocal cords, yet the words themselves were clear and perfectly enunciated, another paradox in a life made of them. "Act of defiance?"
The figure's head tilted slightly as if amused by the question . "Of course. You are my supreme rebellion against the gods, and the stagnant order of the world, against fate itself perhaps..." they paused as if in deep thoughts. "Through you, I have grasped a shred of true creation. I have touched the realm of supermercy." they let out a short, sharp breath that was more a scoff than a laugh. "To be trapped as a mere Transcendent for decades, clawing at the edges of true power… the frustration was a constant, gnawing companion. Until now."
Weaver. Gods. Supreme. Transcendent.
These words were different. Unlike the foundational concepts of air and color, they felt foreign, heavy with meanings and hierarchies it could not grasp. This person , was a 'Supreme,' a title that seemed to be a measure of his incomprehensible power, but what that truly meant was a mystery that inspired only dread.
Noting the creature's palpable confusion, the figure withdrew his hand, clasping them behind his back. "Ah, forgive me I forget myself for a moment. To speak of such things the moment you draw first breath… it is no wonder you are bewildered. The mere fact That you can speak at all is a miracle that still stuns me." they paused paused, the silence filled only by the soft, sinister clicking of the brass instruments. "Let us begin with foundations. For introduction, I am but a humble sorcerer, a student of the true art of this world. You may call me Darien. The Second High Priest of Weaver."
The title hung in the air, thick and ominous, a key turning in a lock to a door the creature did not know existed.
And with those words, the creature's existence truly began. Or perhaps, their nightmare.