The sky cracked open, not with light—but with silence. A world waited for the storm that never came.
The High Seers wailed in confusion. The Obsidian Bell, which tolled only in times of prophecy, shattered at midnight. And from the Temple of Aetherion, a single voice whispered the truth:
"He broke it."
Far above the mortal cities, where clouds coiled like dragons around obsidian spires, the Lightning God stood alone. Armor scorched. Hands shaking. Eyes glowing with stormfire that pulsed in and out of control.
He had done the unthinkable.
He had destroyed the prophecy—his prophecy. The one that foretold the end of the world through his divine fury. He'd unraveled the threads of fate, shattered the sacred seals, and let destiny bleed.
Now, the gods cursed him. The realm feared him. And the skies, once his to command, turned their back.
Power drained from his veins like rain through cracked stone. The heavens denied his name. The earth no longer bent to his will.
He fell.
From the storm-forged throne, from the sky, from divinity itself.
And somewhere, far below, a child cried as lightning struck the sea.