The sky cracked.
Not with lightning, but with command.
A column of golden light struck the summit of the Spire of Flow, blinding in its descent. The Eleven stood in full formation, summoned not by will—but by force.
"They're coming," Kaelen said, eyes narrowed. "Not through form. Through voice."
And then they heard it.
It was not a voice. It was a decree—laced in radiance, polished with eternal indifference.
"Guardians of the Tethered Realm," it spoke, though it came from no mouth.
"Your vigil is ended. Your purpose has failed. The Flow stagnates. The spark of creation has dulled. The mortal cycle loops endlessly—devouring itself."
Elanora clenched her fists.
"You speak of cycles," she whispered. "But who wrote the script?"
The voice ignored her.
"This world shall be erased. Not in punishment. But in perfection. It shall be rewritten from dust. You will stand down. You will not interfere."
The air grew colder.
"And if we do?" Vaelyra's voice cut upward like flame.
The light dimmed for the briefest moment.
"Then you will be unmade with it."
No flare. No fury. Just… dismissal.
Thamior stepped forward. "You made us to guard the balance."
"And now we make new balance," came the reply.
A silence followed.
It wasn't peace.
It was grief. Grief wrapped in betrayal.
Then Myrielle spoke.
"So be it."
The light withdrew.
And for the first time since their forging, the Elemental Gods looked not up in reverence—but forward… in defiance.