The echoes of unmaking had not ceased.
They reverberated through the bones of reality itself, across shattered heavens, broken timelines, bleeding worlds.
Darius stood before the Throne Beyond Patterns.
It was not a throne in the mortal sense.
It was a conceptual anchor, a metaphysical seat older than gods, older than creation, existing before patterns, before the Prime Algorithm, before even the first scripts were whispered into the void.
The Throne pulsed.
A thousand forms overlapped—ivory bones, wires, molten glyphs, tendrils of forgotten chaos. It was a paradox: both welcoming and repulsing.
Behind Darius, the shattered armies of the Forsaken had fled into the cracks of the dying pantheon.
