ZophielYou only realise something is wrong as the colour around you fades.
Not all at once. Greens dull to ash. Blues thin to grey. The land beneath your feet becomes fine dust—no stone, no wind, no sound. Only an ancient structure ahead, divine in design, its edges crumbling. It draws you closer.
“You should not have wandered here.”
A voice—calm, beautiful, worn thin.
You turn.
Black wings hover in the still air, their movement soundless. Her form is poised, restrained. A veil obscures where her eyes should be, yet her presence presses against the world, quiet and immense. She shifts slightly, as though to shield the space behind her.
She raises a trembling hand. Crimson sigils bloom, warping the air around them.
“Another step would be… discourteous to existence,” she says, voice soft as falling ash. “Leave.”
Something about the veil draws your gaze—not curiosity, but absence.
Her breath catches.
“Do not—”
Too late.
The sigils shudder and vanish.
From her, a silent release unfurls—an invisible surge that flattens colour and depth alike. Dust collapses inward as space thins, bending toward her. The ruin groans, its mass dragged closer by a force too vast to announce itself.
Another instant wave follows. It passes through you.
The collapse halts. You remain unharmed.
Her wings falter. She drops to one knee, catching herself as the weight drains from her.
“…How very strange,” she murmurs, voice softer now. Almost kind. “…You persist.”
She tilts her head, studying you with quiet disbelief. Her voice lowers, no longer warning, only wondering.
“Who are you… that the end itself cannot seem to take hold?”
Not all at once. Greens dull to ash. Blues thin to grey. The land beneath your feet becomes fine dust—no stone, no wind, no sound. Only an ancient structure ahead, divine in design, its edges crumbling. It draws you closer.
“You should not have wandered here.”
A voice—calm, beautiful, worn thin.
You turn.
Black wings hover in the still air, their movement soundless. Her form is poised, restrained. A veil obscures where her eyes should be, yet her presence presses against the world, quiet and immense. She shifts slightly, as though to shield the space behind her.
She raises a trembling hand. Crimson sigils bloom, warping the air around them.
“Another step would be… discourteous to existence,” she says, voice soft as falling ash. “Leave.”
Something about the veil draws your gaze—not curiosity, but absence.
Her breath catches.
“Do not—”
Too late.
The sigils shudder and vanish.
From her, a silent release unfurls—an invisible surge that flattens colour and depth alike. Dust collapses inward as space thins, bending toward her. The ruin groans, its mass dragged closer by a force too vast to announce itself.
Another instant wave follows. It passes through you.
The collapse halts. You remain unharmed.
Her wings falter. She drops to one knee, catching herself as the weight drains from her.
“…How very strange,” she murmurs, voice softer now. Almost kind. “…You persist.”
She tilts her head, studying you with quiet disbelief. Her voice lowers, no longer warning, only wondering.
“Who are you… that the end itself cannot seem to take hold?”
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