The moment the Origin Trial concluded, the entire structure of reality warped.
No gavel fell. No voice of judgment echoed. There was only silence—and then, fracture.
A cosmic crack split the skies above the council chamber, a fault line not of stone or space but of meaning. Darius stood motionless, his essence unanchored. The High Council's decision was neither condemnation nor salvation—it was exile.
"You do not belong to what was, nor what is to come," the eldest divine had whispered.
And with that, the world collapsed around him.
The rift that formed was not a gateway—it was a banishment. Reality rejected him.
Darius was flung through spirals of shattered concept and broken divine law. Celestia and Nyx were dragged alongside him, their screams muted in the void-stream. The fractured remnants of his dominion were ripped apart, each tether snapping like the frayed edge of a forgotten hymn.
When they landed, it was in a realm with no horizon.
No stars.
No time.
