The abyss trembled.
From far below the stair, where the Tower's foundations bled into infinity, something stirred. Not Thrones, not crowns—older. The marrow itself, the hidden bedrock on which decree had been carved. It quivered like a beast waking from a forced sleep, its chains rattling as Leon's flame seeped deeper into its bones.
Above, beyond the rift, the Upper Thrones whispered to one another in languages older than stars. Not decree—plots. For the first time in eternity, they did not agree.
Some demanded descent, to crush the heresy before it rooted further. Others counseled patience, warning that the fracture Leon had written could spread if pressed too soon. Their silence was no longer unity—it was division.
And throughout the Tower, climbers felt it.
On Floor 999, where the few who had risen high without crowns hid themselves in despair, fire kindled in their hearts. One lifted his head, eyes wide. "...The law bent."
