She arrived in a white room.
No flame. No mirror. Just absence—crafted deliberately. Walls untouched by shadow. Floor cold as regret. Caelum stood barefoot, stripped of symbols, stripped of name.
The devil sat at a piano.
She played a lullaby he'd forgotten—the one his mother used to hum during rainy nights. She didn't speak until the last note vanished.
"You are tired."
Caelum didn't answer.
"You built an empire. You crafted doctrine, shaped revolt. They chant your name. They dissect your myth. And you wonder if you ever truly lived."
She rose. Walked to a pedestal. Upon it, a sealed vial—liquid brighter than memory.
"Drink this," she said. "And I will unmake you gently. No pain. No legacy. No name left behind."
"The myth dissolves. The doctrine erodes. Caelum Dross disappears. You will be... forgiven by forgetting."
He stared at it.
What would remain?
Not power.
Not guilt.
Not story.
Just nothing.
The devil's voice softened.
"I do not offer redemption. Only rest."
He picked up the vial.
Held it.
Then placed it back.
"Not yet."
She nodded.
"I knew you'd refuse. But I had to offer."
As she faded, the piano began again—played by no one.
And Caelum stood in the silence of possibility.