The Void stirred.
It did not stir often.
Black and unending, with stars that blinked in and out of existence like dying embers, the space belonged to only one being. One presence. The Architect of Ruin.
He stood at the center of it all—massive, divine, impossible to fully look at. His form towered with obsidian skin marbled with glowing veins of red entropy. A cape made of collapsed galaxies draped over his shoulders, and his face was a sculpted mockery of creation, regal and monstrous all at once. His eyes burned twin lights: one gold, one void.
And yet, they flickered now.
"Zayriel… Zayriel… Zayriel," he muttered, voice shaking stars apart as he spoke the name. It echoed through realms long forgotten, bounced through memory and myth.
He had waited. For centuries. For cycles beyond cycles.
And still, no sign of him.
His massive fingers curled into a fist, creating a ripple that shattered five minor planes.
