The chaos had finally broken.
For the first time in what felt like an eternity, the air in the overworld was not choked with the oppressive miasma of the corrupted Gaia.
The skies were blue again, though streaked with the scars of battle—rent clouds where divine power had split the firmament, faint ripples where reality itself had been strained to breaking.
The earth still bore deep fissures and burned craters, but there was life in the wind once more.
On the walls of Herion, Varn leaned heavily on his spear.
He was bloodied, armor dented, and one leg shook beneath him from exhaustion, but he managed a weary smile when Erebus descended from the heavens.
The shadowy Primordial's voice rolled across the city like distant thunder, yet there was no menace in it, only solemn reassurance.
"I have come bearing news from Underworld! The war is over! Gaia has been freed! The world's order will now be restored!"
For a heartbeat, the silence was absolute.
