The sky above was wrong.
Not dark, not void—just blank. Like the world had forgotten how to dream, and the heavens had forgotten how to reflect those dreams.
Aiden stood alone at the edge of what remained. The ground beneath him cracked like old parchment, flaking away from a world that used to remember itself. The Book of What Was still pulsed in his hands, faint with residual warmth, as though exhausted from everything it had rewritten.
He closed it gently. Its cover—stitched from the essence of stories—was fraying.
Even the Book was forgetting.
Behind him, the Blank Sky Pact stirred. Myne, ever silent, leaned against the ruins of a cathedral whose gods had been overwritten long ago. Her silver eyes flickered with something unreadable.
"We lost fifty today," she said without looking at him.
Aiden nodded. He already knew.
