The earth groaned before the people heard it.
It was not the familiar rumble of quakes or storms, but a sound deeper, more ancient — as if the bones of the world themselves had cracked. Villages felt it first: the soil splitting open beneath farms, swallowing half-grown wheat and scattering cattle in panic. In the eastern fields of Terravale, a farmer sank to his knees as his land, once golden, split into a gaping wound.
"My harvest… my children's food…" he whispered, clutching the dirt as though he could stitch it closed with his hands.
Across the seas, fisherfolk cried as the waters rose in fury, waves battering coasts despite the calm skies above. Ships capsized, dragged into depths as if unseen hands pulled them down.
In the cities, towers shook and glass shattered. Nobles stumbled in their banquet halls, fine wine spilling across marble floors. Some laughed nervously, dismissing it as an odd quake. But when chandeliers fell and portraits split down the middle, silence claimed their mouths.
In the high temples, the priests fared worse. As the tremors spread, chants faltered. Sacred fires flickered, then died all at once, smoke curling into unnatural shapes — serpents, chains, eyes that blinked and vanished. A high priest of the Dawn Temple collapsed mid-prayer, blood running from his ears. His last words echoed through the chamber:
> "Hell moves… and Heaven does not answer…"
The nobles who gathered for counsel that night did so in fear. In the royal court of Caelth, lords argued beneath golden banners, their words sharp with panic.
"This is sorcery from the southern empire!" one accused, slamming his fist against the table.
"Madness," another hissed. "The skies were clear. No spell could shake half the continent."
"Then it is the gods!" cried a third, his jeweled rings clattering as he gestured wildly. "They are warning us—"
"They are silent!" the king barked, rising to his feet. His crown gleamed dully beneath the torchlight, though sweat streaked his face. "No god speaks, no oracle answers. Whatever this is… it is older than our prayers."
And he was right.
The world itself trembled because Hell was bleeding. A rebellion had cracked the pit, and Earth felt its echo.
As dawn broke, the trembling ceased, leaving cities and villages in uneasy quiet. Yet the people did not rejoice. In their bones, they knew the shudder was not the end. It was the beginning.
And in the streets of Caelth, where beggars huddled beneath broken arches, a madman whispered of an eye that sees all, painted black across his skin. The first ember of a cult, born in the cracks of fear.