The wind no longer touched the island.
There was no more air, not truly- not with how it curled and thickened like ancient breath caught between dying worlds. The sea beyond the black shores lay still, as if stunned by what had begun here. Time did not move. It only watched.
The body of the Primordial Light of Darkness shuddered again.
The tentacles that formed its eye, those writhing crimson threads that once pulsed with the song of unmaking, were weakening.
Achilles felt it in the space between each heartbeat. The slow unraveling. The way the sinew of that being began to betray its own shape.
He stood still, the grave behind him, the shovel waiting in the soil.
And then he moved.
His hand gripped the haft of the shovel, his fingers brushing the violet Runescripture still humming softly across its frame. He lifted it slowly- no haste, no tremor. And when he stepped forward, the motion was as smooth and inevitable as the turning of tides.
Sun reached out without thinking.
