The Gate of Origin did not open—it split.
Cracks laced its vast arch of ivory and voidstone, bleeding silvery ichor that steamed as it touched the ground. Glyphs etched by forgotten Makers twisted into new meanings, their language rewritten by something far more primal than code or divinity.
At the base of the Gate, the rebellion had gathered—all of them.
The Saint.
The Twice-Killed Queen.
The Nameless Twin.
The Heir of Dust.
The Shattered Prophet.
The Bleeding Flame.
They stood with legions of broken faith and bitter conviction, their banners scorched, their divine artifacts humming with final resonance.
The Prophet spat blood and prophecy in equal measure as she clutched her twin-bladed staff. "If we do not strike now, there will be no strike to make. The Womb is alive."
"Worse," muttered the Saint, staring into the cracking sky, "it's in labor."
