Stones had fallen from the sky like judgment. No ceiling, no walls—only the raw, exposed fabric of a realm unravelling from the inside out. Chunks of marble and obsidian lay shattered across a landscape scorched not by fire, but by divine aftermath. Some still smoked with memory.

  Entire segments of the ground were gone—not shattered, not collapsed, but *unwritten*. Great swaths of terrain simply blinked out, leaving behind negative space where no light dared exist. Rivers of melted soulstuff carved unnatural veins through the blackened soil, glowing with the slow pulse of something dying.

  Air shimmered with paradox. In places, sound reversed. Elsewhere, light bent into impossible angles, folding in on itself like glass melting in reverse. You could stand still and feel motion. Speak, and hear yourself answer before the words left your mouth.

  Massive craters yawned in every direction. Towering monoliths that once bore the sigils of forgotten gods now wept golden ichor. Some bled sideways. Debris hung midair in scattered patches, suspended not by force but by fragmented time. Above, the sky sagged, groaning beneath a dull twilight that flickered between red and something unnamed.

  And in the center of this soul-strewn ruin, two beings faced each other.

  Death bled light from wounds that refused to close. Ash drifted around him like snow mourning its descent. The void that once cloaked him was fractured—pale illumination leaking from divine rents in his frame. He looked like a statue of night cracked open to reveal day.

  Astraxian fared no better. The cracks webbing his flesh and armor pulsed with failing divinity, tracing runes of ruin across his form. A jagged line of black nothingness split from his left eye to cheek—a touch from Death that had nearly unmade his face. Had it lingered, there would be no Astraxian.

  He staggered as the cracks pulsed.

  Then, silence.

  "Let’s say you kill me," Death said. His voice was low, worn down by centuries. "Erase my memory. Hunt down every last god and do the same. Tell me—then what?"

  Astraxian inhaled, his breath catching. Gold bled faintly from his mouth.

  "Then the balance will be restored."

  Death tilted his head.

  "Yes. But then what? Will you rebuild your little order of Wardens? Begin again? Repeat the cycle for another ten thousand years? How long do you plan to endure this, Astra?"

  He gestured to the ruined realm around them.

  "This twisted system is broken. We need a different solution."

  Astraxian screamed back. His voice cracked like breaking stone.

  "There is no other way! You think I haven’t *looked*? I have searched for an answer longer than time has kept count!"

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  He stepped forward. The ground didn’t crack—it *forgot how to exist* beneath his feet, flickering in and out of place.

  "Your stupid revolution has twisted everything! Animals are abominations. Trees howl in languages that never belonged. And humans? Shattered. Scattered. They can't even walk between realms without bleeding power. Their minds *break* trying to live!"

  Death lowered his gaze.

  A silence stretched between them—brief, but deep. Heavy with things unsaid. The ruined world seemed to hold its breath.

  "Don’t forget who I am. I feel every death. I mourn them. I ease them when I can. But you don't… you don't know what it's like. The constant sense of loss. Like there’s something just out of reach—always on the edge of your mind, but never quite there. That... gnawing emptiness. It’s maddening."

  He turned.

  "And believe me, Astraxian. You don’t want a god to go mad."

  Astraxian’s body spasmed. He dropped to his knees.

  Gasps tore through him—shards of breath like glass down his throat. His hand reached out, flickered, and blurred. He did not recognize the limb. Not at first.

  "I’m so tired," he whispered. "So tired of everything. I remember it all. Every moment. Every sacrifice. Every mistake. I remember... her."

  A flash:

  Bare feet in dew-soaked grass. Laughter behind a veil of sunlight. The scent of warm bread and jasmine.

  He shuddered.

  "And I... I don’t know what to do."

  He closed his eyes.

  "I don’t want to go back to how things were. But is there any other choice? The world can’t survive this..."

  Death walked slowly toward him. Then, without a word, he sat beside him. The sound of his presence was the hush of ash falling in slow-motion.

  A long moment passed.

  "Before the war," he said, "Dānessa and I were working on something."

  Astraxian blinked. Distant.

  "Dānessa? The all-knowing witch? The Goddess Of Knowledge? She agreed to work with you?"

  Death chuckled softly.

  "Other way around. She asked *me.* I was just as shocked."

  "What were you working on?"

  "Something unrelated to our current predicament. But maybe... maybe it can help us to fix this permanently. We never finished. But the idea remains."

  Astraxian looked at him.

  "And how do I know this isn’t a stalling tactic? Maybe I should kill you now—find her myself."

  Power swelled around his hand. Threads of gold fractured the air. The sky above *winced.*

  Death didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.

  "Try," Ahrimanos said softly, "and you might finish what I started."

  Death’s expression darkened.

  "You’re falling apart, Astraxian. Even if you kill me, you won’t survive. And remember—"

  He leaned in.

  "I’ll come back. You won’t."

  Astraxian held his gaze. His voice was ice.

  "Oh, I’m sure you can do better threats than that. Because we both know I would welcome an end to my miserable existence with open arms."

  He looked away, exhaling slowly.

  "That said… Ahrimanos, my dear old friend… I’ll accept your request. We’ll go to Dānessa. I’ll hear you out. But—"

  He gestured to his face, and the spiderweb cracks lacing his form.

  "As you can see, I won’t last much longer. That’s why I planned to kill you first. I wanted a small sip of your morbid soul—enough to borrow your regenerative abilities. Help me fix this and in return, I’ll release my power from your wounds. Let you heal."

  Death gave him a long look. Then sighed. He extended a hand. A sphere of negation shimmered into existence.

  Astraxian reached out. As his fingers passed through it, the orb shimmered gold. He gasped—light crawling under his skin like fire.

  The cracks sealed, painfully. His body wavered, brightened, dimmed.

  Then—stillness.

  He exhaled. Then raised a hand toward Death. The light spilling from Death’s wounds vanished. They began to knit shut.

  "Such broken abilities," Astraxian muttered.

  "Of all people," Ahrimanos said dryly, "you don’t get to say that."

  Astraxian managed a weak smile.

  "We need to find you a vessel. Something durable. Can’t have you annihilating cities just by passing through them."

  He turned, scanning the horizon—a horizon that kept folding inward, never the same twice.

  Then he paused.

  Blinked.

  Grinned.

  "...And it seems we have visitors. Multiple, in fact."

  He rose, slowly. Cracked his neck. His shadow moved a second too late.

  "How sweet of them to volunteer."