The world didn't change instantly.
It tilted.
As if every Weave-bearing structure across the continent had flinched—just once. Just enough to remind people that something had stirred in the sky above, or beneath, or beyond.
A ripple passed through the air. No sound. No heat. Just a momentary tremble in reality.
Most didn't notice.
But the ones who could—Talents, high Learners, and sleeping gods—froze.
Something had spoken back to the heavens.
And the heavens had blinked.
---
In the sanctum of Drellem's Gate, Kael sat beneath the humming node of the Silence Breaker, eyes closed, breathing shallow.
He wasn't asleep.
He was listening.
The machine wasn't a transmitter alone—it was also a receiver. But it didn't receive sound or speech. It received pressure. Bias. Shift in the divine Weave layer itself—responses shaped by fear and curiosity.
He could feel the truth like static behind his mind.
> They had noticed him.
> But they didn't know what to do with him.
He was unreadable.
Unbranded.
Unblessed.
Unbound.
A creature outside their equations.
That terrified them.
He smiled.
Just a little.
---
Lyssa watched him from the stairway, arms crossed.
He hadn't spoken in two hours. But the machine hadn't stopped humming. She could see patterns forming in the air around him—pure Weave constructs shaped by logic, not Essence.
It was beautiful.
And a little monstrous.
She stepped forward. "Are you still in there?"
Kael opened his eyes.
And for a second, they looked older. Sharper. Tired in a way no child should ever be.
"I'm here," he said. "But they see me now."
"And?"
"They're arguing."
"About what?"
"Whether I'm a threat… or a possibility."
He stood, brushing dust off his cloak. His voice shifted—more certain now.
"I'm both."
---
Far above, in a place where time was philosophy and stars were opinions, the Seven gathered.
Not avatars.
Not envoys.
Gods.
The real ones.
They had no forms, only intents, shaped to look like meaning. Each was a force. A belief. A structure pretending to be a being. And for the first time in centuries, they spoke in the same silence.
> "The child has activated the Forgotten Core."
> "It was meant to remain sealed."
> "He did not stumble. He calculated. He constructed the logic."
> "He is a fluke."
> "He is a fracture."
> "He is a seed."
They paused.
Then the one called Architect Flame spoke.
Not in sound.
But in decree.
> "Send the Hollow."
There was stillness.
Even among gods, that was not a name to invoke lightly.
> "He is not yet dangerous," murmured the Weaver.
> "But he is correct," replied the Flame.
The Weaver hesitated.
Then, with infinite sorrow: "So be it."
---
Kael awoke from the Weave-dream with a shiver.
"They're sending something," he said.
Lyssa looked up. "Another envoy?"
He shook his head.
"No. This one won't talk. It doesn't even care. It's not punishment. It's… erasure."
Lyssa's hand touched her hilt.
"What do we do?"
Kael stared at the ceiling above them.
He felt no fear now.
Just clarity.
"We finish what they were too afraid to build."
He stepped toward the Archive again, eyes sharp.
"We build the next system."
---
Deep beneath the Weave, a cage shuddered.
Chains older than the sky shifted. A being that wasn't divine—but had touched divinity—opened its eyes.
It didn't breathe.
It didn't think.
It waited.
The gods had whispered its name.
And now it moved.
The Hollow had awakened.