The sky ruptured.
Above the war-scarred plains of the upper firmament, the Cathedral of Unmaking hovered like a bleeding wound in the fabric of divinity. A monolithic structure of inverse logic, it defied architecture—its spires curled downward, staircases led into voids, and stained glass windows reflected events yet to occur. Every second it existed, it sang a silent hymn that threatened to unravel causality itself.
Darius stood atop the prow of his floating fortress, Vermis Ascendant, his divine flame curling around him like a cloak made of stories undone. Behind him, a legion of warborn—constructs of mortal will and divine defiance—readied for the most suicidal assault in history.
Celestia stood to his right, armored in silver flame, her eyes glazed by prophetic trance. To his left, Kaela trembled with chaotic ecstasy, her form flickering between human and riftspawn, her madness barely contained.
