I. The Shuddering of the Loom
Beneath the pillars of time, where the Loom of Existence once sang in harmony, a ripple spread. Not of wind, nor light, but of Meaning Unraveled.
The fracture within N'yrrhath, the flicker within Asaryel, these were not isolated events. In the architecture of reality, even the gods are but keystones — their thoughts, their doubts, their becoming, pulse outward as tides of alteration.
The Loom shivered.
Not broken. Not undone. But… rethreaded with stray fibers that did not belong.
Lesser entities — those born from the fringes of Concept — stirred.
The Myriads, once content as custodians of small truths (gravity, memory, hunger, decay), found their functions shifting beneath them.
The Myriad of Horizon wept, for now distance curved in upon itself.
The Myriad of Breath gasped, as the laws of inhaling and exhaling blurred into an unfamiliar rhythm.
The Myriad of Silence screamed, discovering its own voice — something it was never meant to possess.
These were not rebellions. They were reflections. Echoes of the titanic gods reshaping within.
II. The Cracks in Reality's Skin
Across the veils of manifest worlds, small cracks appeared.
In worlds young and fragile, seas folded into the sky without storm.
In older realms, mountains pulsed like hearts, their veins rich with molten Thought.
Time itself stuttered in isolated eddies — moments repeating, others vanishing, like skipped verses in an ancient song.
Mortals, where they existed, did not know the cause.
But they felt it.
Dreams became heavier.
Reflections grew slow to answer their masters.
Whispers of "The Shapers stir" drifted into the minds of seers and madmen alike.
And beneath it all, the Unmaking Choir sang louder, no longer just a distant dissonance but a living current, threading through the seams of everything.
III. Birth of the Splinterborn
From the intersection of N'yrrhath's spiraling fracture and Asaryel's wavering law, new entities formed — not gods, not Myriads, but something liminal.
The Splinterborn.
They emerged where the Loom's threads frayed, shaped not by divine intention, but by raw collision of chaos and order.
Each Splinterborn was unique, a contradiction made flesh:
Cyranthis, the Knot-Walker, who lived in loops of undone time, never born yet endlessly existing.
Vireth, The Last Answer, who spoke only in questions, unraveling truths with every breath.
Solathryn, the Mirror-Bloom, reflecting not what is, but what should never be.
The Splinterborn did not serve.
They did not rebel.
They simply existed, as inevitable as the shadows of gods.
Where they passed, the fabric of reality softened — cause blurred with effect, and certainty became rare.
IV. The Great Divergence
In the higher courts of Concept, ancient beings gathered.
Entities once allied under the banners of Balance, Creation, Preservation — now found themselves divided.
Some, like Aelthren, Warden of Symmetries, sought to mend the cracks, weaving desperate patches across the Loom, their work slower than the spreading chaos.
Others, like Drosvael, the Veilburner, welcomed the unraveling, seeing in it the birth of new freedoms, new songs of power.
The Court of Continuity fractured.
Old alliances crumbled.
And amidst it all, a whispered fear took root:
What if this is not a passing storm?
What if this is the Becoming of a New Law?
A law born not from singular will, but from the collision, the bleeding, the self-doubt of the Titans themselves.
V. The Mortals' Blind Awakening
On scattered worlds — those fortunate, or unfortunate, to harbor life — small awakenings began.
Not of revolution. Not of enlightenment.
But of noticing.
Children born with spiral-marked eyes, who spoke truths their tongues should not know.
Sages who found their rituals failing, as reality's agreements shifted beneath their feet.
Dreamers who saw vast Rooted Shapes beneath the crust of their worlds, breathing, watching, remembering.
The mortals gave names to these omens:
The Dreamroots
The Shiver in the Sky
The Lawless Breath
But no name could cage the truth.
The war within the gods was no longer within.
It had become the world's new weather.
VI. N'yrrhath and Asaryel — Reflected in the World
Though they did not move, though their thrones remained in their paradoxical realms, N'yrrhath and Asaryel watched.
Their fractures echoed in the world.
For N'yrrhath, it was a quiet triumph. The more the world twisted, the less it resembled a singular, defined truth. In every Splinterborn, in every crack, he saw reflections of his formless infancy.
For Asaryel, it was an ordeal. The shifting, the unmaking — it challenged the heart of his nature. But within the trial, he glimpsed a deeper possibility:
"Order is not a cage if its bars are woven from choice."
An evolution neither defeat nor surrender.
The Choir's song continued, but now, beneath its hymn, new harmonies whispered.
Not endings.
Not beginnings.
But transformations.