Appolyth knew that voice.
She had heard it once before—at her creation.
The one named not after a being, but after a domain itself.
Seraph.
Powerful beyond comprehension. Brilliant. His eyes—liquid gold, deep as oceans—had looked upon her only once. That single gaze was enough to burn her memory into eternity.
She didn't need to see him to know.
He had found her.
Appolyth's composure shattered. She turned and ran—flesh still cracking, the vessel trembling beneath her divine weight.
Outside, neighbors watched in confusion.
"What's happening to Reheil today?"
"Why is there so much screaming from her house?"
But Appolyth heard nothing except the voice reverberating through her mind—smooth, cold, inevitable.
"Even if you flee to the edge of creation…"
The sky darkened. The ground pulsed beneath her feet.
"…I will reach you."
She screamed—not in fear, but in fury—and the world screamed with her.