The Primordial Void was not emptiness. It was not silence. It was the breath before sound, the spark before flame, the possibility before choice. A realm beyond realms, where existence and nonexistence braided together like twin serpents.
And now it belonged to Lucien.
At its center, where the roots of Ydris Solmare twisted into infinity, a throne of inevitability formed itself — not carved, not built, but simply there, because Lucien willed it so. Behind him, the vast silhouette of the Ecliptic Citadel shimmered into being. Towers, black as night and gilded with voidlight, pierced the expanse. The armies, the generals, the marshals — all of them were transported instantly, without strain, without resistance.
This was no longer their fortress hidden in the folds of dimensions. It was their capital in the heart of everything.
The Primordial Citadel.
Lucien stood before it, gaze fixed upward, where the World Tree's roots glowed faintly against the dark. Veythar's immense bulk coiled nearby, the dragon's wings folded against his sides, his presence radiating as heavy as an entire cosmos.
But then — the Tree trembled.
From the roots, a fissure opened. Not of bark, not of flesh, but of concept. A rift where "to be" and "not to be" warred silently. Out of it slithered a shadow that grew into flesh, nine heads coiling into existence, their scales shimmering with the light of annihilation and birth.
Its roar was not sound. It was erasure. Entire swaths of the void blinked out before slowly knitting themselves back together in Lucien's presence.
Veythar rose, eyes narrowed. "By the roots… It's born."
The serpent's nine heads snapped outward, each glowing with a different aspect of force — one burned with time, another with entropy, another with pure void. Its central head lowered, golden slits gleaming with sentience older than language.
"I am Null."
The name rang through the void, undeniable, already carved into the foundation of reality. Null's nine heads spoke in unison, though each tongue carried a slightly different resonance, as if a choir of gods sang a single truth.
Lucien's smirk spread slowly. "A snake from the Primordial Tree itself. Then you were meant to guard what's mine."
Veythar's wings spread, his form towering, aura flaring as he circled. But Lucien simply lifted a hand. Inevitability washed over both beasts, rewriting their essence. Veythar's scales glowed as if reforged in the breath of creation, his origin flame intensified until entire galaxies could burn to ash in a single exhale. Null's nine heads stilled, and the serpent coiled like a great crown around the roots of Ydris.
"From now on," Lucien said, his voice calm but heavy as law, "you are my sentinels. One dragon, one serpent. Together, you are the Fang and the Coil — guardians of the Primordial Void. No god, no outerborn, no fractured will steps foot here unless I allow it."
Veythar bowed, the first time willingly, no inevitability pressing him. Null lowered all nine heads, scales flashing like broken universes.
"We obey."
The Citadel pulsed behind Lucien. His army could feel it — the difference. Their master was no longer the Sole Exception in name. He was the ruler of the axis itself. The one who bent the Primordial Void like a crown upon his head.
For the first time in all eternity, the realm at the roots of creation had an owner.