The abyss did not fall silent.
It screamed.
Not with sound, not with any mortal vibration of air or voice but with memory itself. The wound that had been torn open by the Nameless did not simply bleed darkness; it exhaled centuries. It vomited lives. It howled with every scar existence itself had once buried, a storm of recollection so vast it shattered the stillness of eternity. What should have been emptiness instead surged alive, as though the void had become a throat, and that throat bellowed not with breath but with the weight of forgotten truths.
