Once the room leaned in, once the air itself felt like it was listening, there was no backing out. So I straightened my spine, lifted my chin, and let my voice drop—low, deliberate, the way priests spoke when they were about to ruin your entire worldview.
"This," I said slowly, "is not merely a story. It is a warning myth. One whispered across stars."
The firelight flickered. Someone swallowed loudly.
"The world I dreamed of," I continued, pacing a single step forward, "was called Earth. A realm of steel cities and endless lights, where the night sky was drowned by human brilliance—and human arrogance."
A few nobles frowned, unfamiliar with the concept. I smiled thinly.
"They believed they were alone. That the universe was empty. That nothing watched them." I lifted one finger. "They were wrong." A shiver passed through the hall. "One day—without ritual, without omen—the sky opened."
I spread my hands. "Not clouds. Not storms. The sky itself. As if reality tore like fabric."
