The first tremor struck like a hammer blow through marrow. The earth convulsed, tearing itself open in gaping scars. Mountains screamed as their spines split apart, rivers bucked and boiled, reversing in violent torrents that carved new wounds across the land. The Council rose to their feet, weapons drawn out of instinct, but no enemy came—only the world itself turning inside out.
Then the Rift split.
The ancient scar at the heart of Shadow World did not simply crack—it erupted, vomiting a storm of black fire and void-light so violent it peeled the air away from itself. Skies bled, clouds shredded, the stars above went blind. From the wound poured shadows that writhed like serpents, wrung into form by an ancient breath that had not touched reality in an age.
And then he rose.
