The day Heaven fractured did not begin with fire.
It began with contradiction.
Across the dominions, every surviving shrine flared at once—light stuttering through sigils that had never once failed in recorded history. The Choir tried to speak.
And spoke over itself.
Voices overlapped. Harmonies desynced. Prophecies contradicted prophecies mid-syllable. Seers collapsed clutching their ears as divine data shattered into incompatible truths.
Heaven was no longer a single voice.
It was arguing with itself.
At Blackthorne, the six inert Executors still stood across the frost-bitten battlefield like forgotten statues. Snow gathered on their shoulders. Wind curled around their motionless forms.
They did not move.
They did not recalibrate.
They simply… existed without instruction.
Rowa
