The sky did not open.
It lowered.
Clouds compressed into impossible layers, folding inward until light itself seemed unsure whether to pass through. The city fell silent—not by command, but instinct. People felt it in their bones.
Something vast was aligning.
Aerun stood in the ruined street, breath ragged, the echo of silence still clinging to his skin like cold ash. His hands trembled—not from fear, but from restraint held too tightly.
Lyrae staggered beside him, her form flickering violently now, more solid than before but far from whole.
"They're done debating," she said hoarsely. "This is consensus."
Talrek Vos pushed himself upright against the wall, face bloodless. His shattered sigil lay scattered like dead stars at his feet.
"You've forced their hand," he said. "They don't descend often."
Aerun met his gaze. "Then they shouldn't have taught us to kneel."
The pressure hit.
Not downward.
Everywhere.
Buildings groaned as if remembering gravity for the first time. Windows spiderwebbed instantly. People collapsed where they stood, unable to breathe under the conceptual weight pressing into existence.
Aerun dropped to one knee—but did not break.
The warmth at his back surged violently, fighting to respond.
"Don't," Lyrae gasped, grabbing his arm. "If you answer them directly—"
"I know," Aerun said through clenched teeth. "It won't stop."
A shape formed above the plaza.
Not a body.
A boundary given voice.
Light folded into a vast silhouette that hurt to perceive, edges undefined, form correcting itself constantly. Multiple voices spoke through it—layered, overlapping, harmonized into something final.
"Aerun Kaelthar."
His name landed like a verdict.
"You are declared a contradiction."
The words rewrote pressure.
Aerun felt his blood slow, his breath struggle against a reality that no longer agreed he should continue.
Lyrae screamed as her form destabilized, tearing at the edges.
"No!" she shouted upward. "You don't get to erase what you don't understand!"
The presence did not acknowledge her.
"The artifact will be separated."
Talrek's eyes widened. "You can't—"
The presence shifted.
Talrek's voice cut off as relevance slipped from him. He remained standing—but the presence no longer accounted for him.
Aerun felt something tug at his spine.
Not physical.
Conceptual.
The weapon resisted.
The warmth flared—not violently—but anchoring itself to him.
Aerun forced himself upright, vision blurring.
"You won't take it," he said.
"You cannot prevent inevitability."
Aerun laughed—broken, furious. "You taught me restraint. You just never learned it yourselves."
He reached back.
Not to draw.
To brace.
He planted his feet and held the weapon in place with both hands, body screaming in protest.
The silence did not fall.
Instead—
It pushed back.
For the first time, the divine presence hesitated.
Lyrae felt it.
"They're… feeling resistance," she whispered. "Actual resistance."
The presence's voices fractured slightly.
"This outcome was not calculated."
Aerun screamed as pain tore through him—not injury, but overload. His nerves burned with information the world was trying to force through him.
Still, he held.
"You don't decide everything," he gasped. "You just decide what you're afraid to remember."
The sky cracked.
Not shattered.
Fractured.
Light spilled unevenly, reality slipping a fraction out of alignment.
Far below, something ancient stirred fully awake.
Not a god.
Not a weapon.
A counterweight.
Lyrae felt herself slam back into sequence, collapsing to the ground, solid at last.
Aerun collapsed with her.
The divine presence recoiled—not defeated, but repelled.
"This matter is unresolved."
The sky lifted.
Pressure vanished.
Sound returned in a rush of screams, collapsing stone, and sobbing breath.
Aerun lay on his back, staring at the broken clouds.
Lyrae crawled to his side, gripping his cloak.
"You did it," she whispered. "You made them stop."
"For now," Aerun said faintly.
Talrek stood nearby, finally able to breathe again, staring upward in shaken disbelief.
"They stepped down," he murmured. "They actually stepped back."
Aerun turned his head slowly.
"Then remember this moment," he said. "Because next time, I won't be alone."
Far beneath the world, beyond gods and records, the silence settled into place.
Not as absence.
As balance.
And somewhere deep in forgotten layers of existence, something spoke—not aloud, not yet—
Soon.