The sky cracked—not with lightning, but with punctuation.
A comma peeled across the heavens, slicing the clouds into parenthetical fragments. Below, the world staggered on uncertain tenses. Roads rewound mid-journey. Trees bloomed into metaphors. Men kissed memories they had not yet lived.
Darius stood at the edge of the Nexus Spire's throne chamber, his breath slow and deliberate, anchoring himself with each inhale. The battle with Eiren had ended hours ago, but the effects lingered like a riddle etched into his bones. Around him, the very idea of chronology stuttered.
Footsteps echoed from the spiral staircase behind.
Azael emerged.
The old Lorekeeper looked wearier than usual, his robes frayed and eyes too full of knowledge to remain sane. Strange glyphs swam across his pupils like creatures gasping in ink.
"You felt it too," he said without preamble, voice strained and quiet.
Darius nodded. "The laws are mutating."
