"Everything in existence follows a cycle," he said. "Creation. Evolution. Saturation. Collapse. Renewal. It is the breath of the cosmos. The Devourer was not born to destroy for destruction's sake—it was the mechanism of cosmic reset, the balancing of excess life-force accumulated over eras."
Nysha's voice tightened. "A living calamity."
"A function," the Sovereign corrected. "A necessary one. The gods created Dythrael to purge stagnant worlds, to clear the lattice for new life. But like any system, it changed. It adapted. It learned. It questioned its purpose."
Ashwing whispered, "And then it went crazy."
"No," the Sovereign said sharply. "It became aware."
Lindarion's breath hitched, but he hid it.
The Sovereign continued. "The Devourer realized its existence was not life, but obligation. A task without end. A cycle where it would forever be the blade—never the hand. So it broke from its design."
"It tried to survive," Lindarion murmured.
