Golden beams tore through the crumbling firmament like the hands of destiny itself, unfurling across the shattered skies above the Middle Wheel Platform. They descended not with violence, but with purpose, each shaft of light carrying within it a figure- or rather, an inevitability shaped into flesh and weaving.
Five in total.
Three men. Two women.
Each clad in gleaming robes of woven gold, their hems stitched with runes of collapsed suns and rising fates. Hair like molten metal- white, gold, platinum, crowned them, gleaming beneath the broken skies. The complexity and purity radiating from their beings was not just overwhelming- it was absolute.
Their presence bent the air.
As they settled around Kalysta, Existence itself seemed to breathe easier, if only for a moment. The ground beneath them stopped its trembling, the ruinous gravity of the Living Collapse's authority halting at the edges of their luminance.
And still, they did not draw swords, nor raise hands.
