There are places even Heaven does not look.

  Deep beneath layers of forgotten reality—below old ruins, failed timelines, and worlds that collapsed without witnesses—there is a hollow where sound dies first. No wind. No echoes. No time moving forward in any way that makes sense.

  That is where Rezok stood.

  Not trapped.

  Not imprisoned.

  Waiting.

  His form shifted subtly, never settling into something fully solid. Armor that wasn’t armor clung to him like memory. His face was partially hidden beneath fractured shadow, but his eyes—those were constant. Ancient. Patient. Amused.

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  Footsteps echoed behind him.

  A figure knelt instantly, pressing their forehead to the cold stone.

  “My sire,” the voice said reverently. “I live because you allow it.”

  Rezok did not turn.

  Damsul remained kneeling, spine bowed, hands trembling—not from fear, but devotion. His body was thin, elongated, etched with ritual scars that glowed faintly violet. Chains of bone and sigils wrapped around his arms, each one a promise he had carved into himself willingly.

  “You took your time,” Rezok said calmly.

  Damsul lowered his head further. “I was gathering whispers. The world is loud right now.”

  Rezok smiled slightly. “Yes. Heaven always makes noise when it panics.”