The sky did not answer Keal’s question.
Not with words.
With silence.
Then… it ripped.
A vertical tear in the fabric of the horizon, wider than a mountain and blacker than the void between stars. It opened with a thunderous wail like an entire world exhaling after a long, dreadful sleep.
From the rift, a figure stepped forward—not conjured, not summoned. Freed.
It was not the pale man.
This thing was older.
Taller than any mortal frame, faceless save for the burning red rings that hovered like eclipses where its eyes should be. It wore no armor and bore no sigils. Only the suggestion of form—shadows draped in gold-threaded robes that defied wind and light.
The pale man, now very small beside the rift, looked up in awe—and fear.
“I gave you what you asked,” he whispered. “You said
