The world did not end with Zeus's death.
It merely… shifted its place.
Three nights had passed. The village pretended to return to normal; men went back to their fields, women carried water, children ran through the streets. Yet nothing was as it had been. No one walked alone after nightfall anymore, and windows were shut before the sun disappeared.
Because the sky no longer knew silence.
The clouds brought no storm, yet they changed shape—sometimes circling like rings, sometimes splitting cleanly in two. There was no rain. No lightning. And still, something was watching.
Zeythara had felt it from the very first night.
Barefoot, she had stepped onto the stones of the courtyard and lifted her gaze to the sky. She did not test her power. She did not call to it. She only listened. And as she listened, she felt a vibration she did not recognize.
This was not Zeus's power.
This… was not even divine.
"The world is cracking," she murmured to herself.
Kaelric watched her from the doorway. He had grown quieter these past days—more cautious. After witnessing Zeythara's true strength, he no longer looked at her as before: neither from above, nor as an equal. He looked at her the way one looks at a weapon whose limits are unknown.
"Did you feel something?" he asked.
Zeythara nodded.
"Something woke up."
Kaelric frowned.
"What?"
"It has no name," Zeythara said. "And it has nothing to do with Zeus's death. It's older."
At that moment, a bell rang from the edge of the village.
But it was not the village bell.
The sound was dull—broken. As if bone, not metal, were striking bone.
They both turned at once.
A figure stood on the path beyond the village.
Tall. Thin. It wore neither a proper robe nor armor. Its fabric looked like darkness itself, yet it did not move with the wind. Its face could not be seen; its head was bowed. And yet, you felt it watching.
The villagers peered from half-open doors. No one approached. No one screamed.
The figure spoke.
Its voice did not seem to come from a single mouth.
"The Last Thunder is dead."
Zeythara's eyes narrowed.
"No," she said calmly, but with steel in her voice. "You are mistaken."
The figure lifted its head.
For the first time, its face was visible—yet not clearly. As though a face were formed from several possibilities at once.
"He died for us," it said.
"And now it is your turn."
Kaelric stepped forward on instinct.
"Who are you?"
The figure looked at him.
It paused for a moment.
"You are… outside the equation," it said. "But you will break all the same."
Zeythara took a step forward.
"Speak your name."
The figure slowly withdrew. Its feet barely seemed to touch the ground.
"We do not carry names," it said.
"We are the voids."
Then the sky trembled.
But no storm came.
The figure on the path dissolved, as if it had never existed at all. Only a single mark remained, carved into the stone:
a circle, cut through by a broken line.
Zeythara knelt. The moment she touched the symbol, the tips of her fingers burned.
It was a summons.
And this summons… was not meant for her alone.
Kaelric exhaled slowly.
"This time," he said, "it's not a god."
Zeythara rose to her feet. Her eyes gleamed in the darkness.
"Yes," she said.
"This time… it's worse."