Night fell heavier than usual over the valley of the Codex.
Clouds rolled in from horizons unseen, black and pulsing with strange lightning that hummed through the bones of the ruins. Even the stars—those silent witnesses to eternity—seemed to draw back, unwilling to behold what would soon unfold.
The Codex rested still upon its altar of obsidian stone.
Its light was dim, but alive—breathing faintly in rhythm with a Will that watched from beyond all worlds.
Within the temple's lower halls, whispers had turned to murmurs, murmurs into words, and words into oaths.
Dalen stood before a circle of disciples whose eyes no longer carried wonder, only the dull shimmer of fear. Behind him, the air rippled faintly—as though space itself strained under the weight of their disbelief.
"She does not understand."
Dalen said quietly.
"Serenya speaks of imperfection as though it were salvation. But what if the First Dragon's fall from omnipotence and omniscience and omnipresent and Omnificence was not a lesson… but a mistake?"
The others stirred uneasily.
"If Primovast can cast away power, what stops others from doing the same?"
one asked.
"Maybe that's why suffering exists at all,"
another whispered.
"Because he grew… bored."
Dalen's eyes hardened.
"Then we will not suffer for the whims of an imperfect god. We will seek to reclaim what was lost—the power he abandoned. We will finish what the First Dragon began."
The hall trembled faintly, as though reality itself recoiled.
Something old and unseen stirred beneath the floor—not Primovast's Will, but the echo of his discarded omnipotence, still drifting like starlight turned cold.
Dalen felt it. His heart raced.
*Perfection… unclaimed… waiting.*
He reached out.
And the air cracked open.
Above, Serenya jolted awake.
A pulse of light burst from the Codex, illuminating the valley like a second moon. Her heart thudded painfully as she sensed the fracture deepening below—faith twisting into ambition, devotion into heresy.
She grasped the Codex, and for a moment, she felt the Will—faint but firm, speaking without words.
*Let them choose, child of breath. Even rebellion is a shape of creation.*
Serenya's eyes shone with tears.
"Then guide me."
she whispered.
"If they must fall, let me stand where the light still remembers."
In the lower chamber, Dalen's followers watched in awe as the rift stabilized. The air around it shimmered with fragments of black-gold starlight—energy older than any world, the residue of the First Dragon's All-Omni.
It did not welcome them. It tempted them.
"Behold."
Dalen murmured, voice trembling.
"The abandoned power of the Creator. His will may have grown tired—but we will not. We will seize perfection, and end all flaw!"
One disciple hesitated.
"But… isn't that—"
A tendril of dark light brushed her face.
She fell silent, eyes glazing with cold radiance.
The energy of lost omnipotence was not malevolent. It was indifferent—pure, unshaped power. Yet to mortal hearts unready, it whispered too sweetly of control, of freedom, of dominance.
Dalen smiled faintly.
"Through imperfection, the First Dragon fell. Through perfection, we will ascend."
The ground shook.
Serenya descended from the upper chamber, her cloak a cascade of light and shadow, the Codex clutched close. Her voice thundered through the hall:
"Stop this!"
The rift pulsed once—then flickered, quivering like a heartbeat of dying stars.
Dalen turned. His eyes were no longer his own. They burned with black fire, galaxies swirling in their depths.
"Why stop?"
he asked softly.
"Why cling to limitation, Serenya? You say the First Dragon gave up Omnipotence and omniscience and omnipresent and Omnificence to understand imperfection. But I say this—perhaps we were meant to reclaim it."
Serenya stepped forward, each stride echoing like a toll of divine judgment.
"You do not understand what you grasp. That power was never meant to be taken again. It was the price of creation itself!"
Dalen smiled bitterly.
"Then creation was a mistake."
Silence fell.
The disciples around them watched, torn between awe and terror.
The rift pulsed again, light cascading through the hall—half pure white, half consuming black. The air thickened: gravity bent. Time slowed, curled, shivered.
And then the Codex reacted.
A column of light erupted from Serenya's hands, intercepting the rift.
Symbols of ancient language spiraled into the air—the true script of the First Dragon, living light older than even the Cardinal World.
"You defy the Will of Primovast himself!"
she cried.
Dalen laughed—not with joy, but with grief turned to madness.
"Then so be it. Let the imperfect burn in the flames of perfection!"
He reached into the rift.
Reality screamed.
The hall exploded in a maelstrom of black and gold light.
Walls fractured into infinite mirrors, each reflecting a different world. Time shattered into moments, rewound, collapsed again. Space folded like glass beneath a hammer.
Serenya's voice rang above it all, raw with fury and sorrow.
"Dalen! You'll destroy everything!"
But Dalen was already beyond reason. The power coursing through him tore his body apart and remade it in an endless loop of rebirth—a flicker of something not mortal, not divine, but caught between.
Through the chaos, a presence awakened—faint but undeniable.
The Will of Primovast—not his power, not his form, but his observation.
It drifted through the fractured air, unseen, watching as creation once again danced between order and ruin.
*They rebel. They seek what I cast away. They have become as I once was—curious, proud, and bored of limitation. So be it. Let them learn as I did.*
The rift expanded, devouring light.
Serenya raised the Codex high.
"Primovast, guide me!"
The pages flared open—and a thousand symbols of starlight burst forth, weaving together into a radiant seal. The rift howled as it was bound, folding back into nothingness.
When the light faded, Dalen lay on the floor, breathing raggedly, the glow gone from his eyes. The others had fallen silent, staring at Serenya as if at something beyond mortal comprehension.
She lowered the Codex slowly. Her hands shook. Tears fell quietly down her cheeks.
"Forgive them"
she whispered to the void above.
"They only sought to understand You."
And faintly, impossibly, the Codex pulsed once.
A whisper drifted through the broken hall—no louder than a heartbeat, yet it echoed across eternity.
*All paths lead to understanding, my child. Even rebellion.*
Outside, the storm broke.
Rain fell over the valley, cleansing the stone, carrying the dust of shattered pride away.
Serenya stood alone among the ruins, the Codex held close.
She knew peace would not return easily. Doubt had taken shape, and once born, it would never truly die.
But she also knew this: even in imperfection, even in rebellion, the Will of Primovast endured.
Watching. Waiting.
Guiding without control.