Two Souls Against the Fabrics Of Fate

That chubby, innocent-looking, overfed little gremlin.

The Ruvon could still see it in her mind—how it had just appeared in the middle of the catastrophe, plopping itself onto Moonveil's lifeless body like it belonged there, like it wasn't standing in the epicenter of pure annihilation.

And Pyris… hadn't even noticed.

She had thought, for a moment, that it was just some stray pet.

And then—

It ate the fking apocalypse.

No warning. No spellwork. No ritual. Just… open mouth, consume doomsday, problem solved. She had watched in real-time as the storm of raw, untamed, world-ending energy—something so volatile that even gods would think twice before touching it—was sucked away into that ridiculous little creature.

And it didn't keep it.

Didn't store it.

Didn't explode into some cosmic horror like any other being would if they tried to contain that much absolute devastation.

No.

It had redirected it.