Maltherion does not dream.

  Dreams are for beings who still hope.

  He waits in the deep places where annihilation once masqueraded as balance — where the last laws of dying gods hang like broken ribs around a void that never learned to be empty.

  The pulse reaches him like a tremor through bone.

  Not sound.

  Not light.

  Resonance.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Creation aligning.

  Stability forming.

  A weight pressing outward instead of collapsing inward.

  Maltherion’s vast form stirs within storms of antimatter and shadowed flame. Ancient wings unfold slowly, each movement unraveling realities that never finished being born.

  “So,” he murmurs, voice folding dimensions thin,

  “The forge breathes again.”

  Around him, legions of voidspawn shift restlessly. Seals crack. Forgotten weapons awaken. The Children of the Antipulse stir within their chrysalis realms, sensing that something has finally become solid enough to break.

  Maltherion’s many eyes open.

  Far away, beyond stars and sanctuaries, he feels it clearly now.

  Aarkain.

  Not a threat yet.

  But a weight.

  “Become,” Maltherion whispers, almost fondly.

  “So I may unmake you properly.”

  The void answers with hunger.