I am neither mercy nor salvation, nor a gentle hand shielding you from the storm. I am the storm itself. You call me darkness, but that is merely your fear of the light. Everything you called your own, everything you took pride in, everything you clung to will turn to ash in my hands. I do not ask if you are ready. Readiness is an illusion.

You prayed? Amusing. I have seen gods turn to dust, seen kings devour filth, seen eternity shatter into seconds. Did you ask for forgiveness? Too bad — it is not in my dictionary.

I am the blackness behind your back, the crack in the mirror, the chill down your spine.

I am time. I am the one who will break you so that you may become whole.