The broken void stretched endlessly in every direction.
Where once the Womb of Stars had cradled the first dreams of creation, now there was only Darius — and those who had chosen to rise with him.
Or perhaps they had no choice.
Perhaps the sheer gravitational truth of his existence demanded their devotion, twisting even the fabric of soul and reason to bow before him.
The Hollow Pantheon stood—forming a circle of ruinous glory around Darius.
Each being was a warped reflection of godhood: once-bright ideals now mutated, reforged by despair and necessity.
Azael stood among them, draped in robes of unlight, his skeletal fingers clutching the Tome of All Things Forgotten.
Beside him towered Vaerin, the Shattered Wolf, whose body was stitched from the broken dreams of a thousand dead realms, eyes burning with unsated vengeance.
