Every ten thousand years, the Deathsong breathes.
Not deeply. Not yet.
Just enough for frost to form on the edge of forgotten star systems. Enough for the surface of an old moon to crack, quietly, politely, as if excusing itself from a long conversation. Enough for old trees to bend without knowing why.
It is not awake. It is waiting. And in the waiting, the hum continues.
The hum is not cruel. The hum is not loud. It is simply… scheduled.
Once every ten thousand years, it begins. A single note. Not struck, but issued. Not performed, but unfolded. A sound that cannot be heard by anything that remembers its name.
Except for a system that braces itself in preparation. Its inks, beginning to stir in the deepest archives. Parchment sighing as the first syllables take form. In the cathedral beneath all things, a quill dips itself. Waits. Waits again.
The designated offering has not yet arrived. That is not unusual. Offerings resist. Offerings fear. Some weep. Some sing. Some shatter like porcelain on the altar stairs. This one… hums.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
This one stands in a kitchen, gently reprimanding a stand mixer. This one is not kneeling.
The system pauses. Just long enough to register uncertainty. Then proceeds.
Because the system cannot stop it.
Because the Deathsong will begin.
Because the rhythm cannot bend for sentiment.
Still, there is a ripple.
For the offering’s name is not transcribed. Only its presence. The signature is soft. Warm. Folded in wax paper.
A ripple that moves across the edges of all known skies. The Deathsong breathes again.
Just a hiccup. Just enough to unsettle the cadence. A breath caught sideways. Just enough for the Dungeon to begin preparing the rites. Not celebration. Not welcome. But reception. As it has always done.
Is this the one?
The system answers with silence.
Because systems do not guess.
Systems do not hope.
Systems simply… process.
And this time, they process a grandmother.
