There was no falling.Only the sensation of being unmade.

Draven drifted through the rift as if time itself had forgotten him. His body no longer obeyed the laws of flesh. Light and shadow wrapped around him in slow tides, each pulse revealing fragments of worlds half-born and half-dying. Sometimes he saw the Vale—the ruins bleeding light, the shattered dais still humming like a broken heart. Sometimes he saw nothing at all.

Then came the voices.

At first, whispers.

Then clearer, ...