The peace did not last.
It shattered like ice beneath a giant's fist.
A sound rose from the bones of the city—not from throat or horn, but from the soul of something ancient and furious. A roar that peeled paint from stone and shattered windows still intact. It came from everywhere and nowhere, like the echo of a god clawing back through the veil.
Koda staggered as it hit him, ears ringing. Maia grabbed his arm, steadying them both as the ground beneath their feet groaned. Dust rained from the ceiling. Far above, the light in the stained-glass skylight dimmed—not from clouds, but from shadow.
The shadow had no shape, only weight.
And it was angry.
"What was that?" Junen growled, her hand already on her weapon.
Deker didn't answer. He simply pointed.
Across the rooftops, a ripple of black heat shimmered along the skyline. Where the divine wave of Sanctuary had passed moments before, this thing now surged in return—slower, but deliberate. Like a tide of molten pitch refusing to recede. It slithered through alleyways, through broken plazas, seeping toward the Archive.
Toward them.
Terron cursed low and hard. "It's Pride. It's still here."
"No," Koda said. His voice was hoarse, quiet. "Not just Pride."
He could feel it now, thrumming in the marrow of his bones.
Wrath's rage, coiled like a whip behind every pulse.
Sloth's suffocating weight, pressing like stone on his chest.
And beneath it all, the distant ache of Lust's endless hunger—twisting, smiling, waiting.
The wave hadn't been driven back. It had been cornered.
And now it was reforming.
The shell of the Primal God—the vessel into which the shards had poured—was awakening. And it had not appreciated being denied.
Maia stepped beside him, her face pale but resolute. "Then we go now. Before it finishes whatever it's becoming."
Koda looked to her, then to the others. The team stood ready, but this was no longer the war they had planned to fight. This was worse.
This was a god in mourning—not for loss, but for pride injured. A god that now knew fear for the first time... and hated it.
The city around them began to tremble. Buildings cracked. Light posts bent. And from the deep below—beneath even the Archive—a fissure split the street with a shriek of tearing stone. Heat wafted from the crack, and from that heat came laughter.
Mocking.
Smooth.
Familiar.
Pride.
"Come," it said, though no mouth moved. "Come and see what your weakness has earned."
Then silence.
No more tremors. No more roar. Just the haunting quiet of a city holding its breath.
Koda turned toward the rift. Toward the undercity—toward the hollow throne that waited beneath it all.
"This ends tonight," he said.
And together, they descended into the dark.
A stairway had formed. Not crafted. Not carved. Formed. A spiraling path of black stone that hadn't existed minutes before, each step slick with some oily sheen that gleamed despite the darkness.
"This wasn't here before," Thessa whispered. "This wasn't anything."
"Not a place," Junen murmured. "A wound."
Deker, for once, said nothing.
They descended.
Each footfall echoed strangely—sometimes ahead of them, sometimes behind. The walls of the fissure twitched like muscle. Koda's breath came heavier the deeper they went, not from exertion, but from pressure. The air thickened, pulling into his lungs like honeyed smoke. It tasted like burned parchment and blood iron and something sweet, rotting behind it all.
The stones were ancient—but not old. There was no dust, no age here. Just design. This place had not been made by time. It had been made by purpose.
They passed carvings—twisting, writhing reliefs etched into the black walls. The sins. Not as symbols or scripture, but living memories frozen in stone. Sloth, a massive figure reclining over broken cities, its breath extinguishing stars. Lust, a writhing mess of limbs and mouths, pulling souls apart in ecstasy and agony. Wrath, a skeletal titan raking its fingers through the world, tearing gods and beasts in half.
And Pride—at the center of it all—stood unbowed, arms outstretched, offering mercy that looked too much like dominion.
"They worshipped it," Terron said, revolted. "Whatever built this place…"
"No," Koda answered. "It built this place."
He could feel it now—not as an enemy, but as a mirror. The scar didn't just run through the city.
It ran through him.
A final platform revealed itself as they descended. A great landing shaped like an eye, staring eternally upward, the pupil carved into the ground—a gateway into the world below. Runes burned dim along the iris, whispering in languages none of them spoke aloud. The staircase ended here. From this point, the only way forward was to fall.
And so, they jumped.
Not far. Only a few feet.
But the moment they landed, everything changed.
There was no heat here. No light. Just presence.
A chamber vast enough to hold the capital above. Its walls pulsed with veins of gold and obsidian, snaking like corrupted lifeblood through an ancient body. Towering arches soared into blackness, lined with statues—hundreds of them—each one a faceless humanoid, mouths open in silent song, eyes gouged out.
At the center of the cathedral-cavern sat the throne.
Not made of wood or stone or even bone.
But bodies. Woven. Twisted. Piled. Their flesh long dead, but their souls trapped in a scream that had no air to carry it.
And upon that throne sat It.
The Primal God's shell.
What had once been Veylan's body was now a husk—stretched and burned from within by the shards it could not contain. The limbs were too long. The joints reversed. The skin was translucent in places, revealing veins of burning color. Pride had stitched it together with sin, and now it wore the corpse like a crown.
Its face was divine. Not beautiful. Not hideous. Just perfect.
Too perfect.
So perfect it unsettled the mind, like staring at a reflection with one too many eyes.
It smiled.
And the chamber smiled with it.
"Welcome, hero," said Pride. Not aloud. Inside them.
All of them flinched. Koda dropped to one knee, fighting the pressure pressing on his chest.
"You've done well," it continued, its voice now echoing from the statues, from the walls, from behind their eyes. "You proved stronger than Wrath. More patient than Sloth. And unlike so many before you... you understand."
It leaned forward, and the light of its veins reflected in the stone.
"You would make a fine vessel."
The group stepped in closer, forming a rough line. Weapons drawn. Magic humming. Koda rose beside them.
But his gaze never left the god.
He could feel it—not just with his senses, but in his soul. Pride had let him into its dream. It had tasted his heart. And in return, it had invited Koda into its domain.
That invitation had not been withdrawn.
The others were seeing a monster.
Koda was seeing a version of himself, twisted into something unbearable.
"I don't want to fight you," Koda said quietly.
The god tilted its head.
"But I will."
Pride rose from its throne.
All twenty feet of it.
Its spine cracked like thunder. Its chest split slightly, revealing a burning void held together by will. Its arms stretched into shapes they should not have. And behind it, the shadows uncurled—seven great wings of writhing sin, each one flaring with a different hue. Red for Wrath. Blue for Sloth. Violet for Lust. Gold for Pride. And three wings—still black—waiting.
The god did not roar.
It did not threaten.
It simply extended one hand.
"Then come," it whispered, "and see what becomes of gods who forget their place."