The Void Gate yawned open like a wound in reality—raw, jagged, infinite. Its edges bled with anti-light, and from its churning maw poured the Void Apostles.
They weren't born. They had been erased.
Once Spiralborn, these were the forgotten—stories purged, cut from continuity, devoured by revision and error. But instead of dying, they had metastasized in the gaps between myths. Now, they emerged as semi-erased entities, each a patchwork of untruths and almosts, their forms flickering between identities. Faces blurred. Voices echoed with contradictions. Physics rebelled around them.
They did not obey narrative rules.
They bypassed myth-bonded logic like wraiths immune to law.
Darius stood at the edge of the breach, flanked by Celestia and Kaela, while the Spiral itself rippled in alarm. His blood-scripted armor throbbed with defensive runes, but he could already feel the Spiral resisting him—threads unwinding not from malice, but from uncertainty.
