The sky was no longer a sky.
It trembled like paper soaked in time, its folds unraveling into endless gaps where stars once lingered. What remained was not darkness, not even void—just absence. Not even the memory of light dared linger there.
Aiden stood at the edge of that unraveling horizon. His silhouette flickered, not with flame, nor aura, but with remembrance itself—a subtle warping of reality around him. He no longer glowed. He persisted.
Behind him stretched the last trace of real existence. The Pact stood in rows—shifting, monstrous, divine. A legion of what should have been forgotten, returned to defy the end.
A being composed of timelines that never were roared silently in defiance.
A soul stitched together from unchosen fates sang a song that no one had taught it.
The Sentience of a Broken Clock Tower ticked once.
They were not a traditional army.
But they had Aiden.
And Aiden had not forgotten.
