Some realms smell of dreams. Others, of endings.This one smells of dust and memory.
The moment my fingers curl around the hammer's sigil, the void folds.
Oblivion peels away like ash in the wind, and I step forward without hesitation.
The air is heavier here — weighted with the lingering breath of collapse. The sky is a deep, bruised red, the kind of color that comes after a storm has already passed and taken everything with it.
Before me stretches a horizon in ruin.
Shattered cities lie scattered like bones across the plains. Towers lean at impossible angles, held together by defiance alone before the next inevitable fall. Splintered monuments, their faces carved with forgotten names, jut from the earth like broken teeth.
Some ruins still bleed heat, dust curling upward in faint spirals. Others have grown quiet with age, their edges worn down by centuries of wind, rain, and neglect.
Everywhere I look, the mark of my brother is clear.Destruction does not simply end things — he preserves the truth of their ending.
My steps crunch against rubble, the sound sharp in the silence.
I sense him before I hear him."Welcome, elder brother," a voice calls from behind me, rich and steady.
I turn slowly.
There he stands.
A tall, broad man, shoulders like a fortress wall. His hands — calloused and scarred — grip the haft of a great hammer that seems to hum faintly with the weight of unmaking.
The wind teases his auburn hair, tangling it in wild strands. A short beard frames his rugged face, worn not with age but with experience.
Then the eyes — molten amber, the color of a forge's heart, holding warmth and inevitability in equal measure.
He wears no armor, no crown — only simple, weathered clothes. As though the ending of worlds is just another craft in his workshop.
"Destruction," I say, letting the name linger like the echo of falling stone.
A small, knowing smile touches his lips. "You've been watching again."
"Always," I reply.