Beneath the collapsing threads of fractured Rome, in a chamber that should not have survived the centuries—he waited.
Not Damien. Not the thing wearing Damien.
But the one who waited beneath.
He stirred as the Epoch Shard bled its resonance into the timestream, as Lyra broke loop after loop in futile defiance. He had felt every reset. Every scream. Every splintering of her soul.
And still—he waited.
The chamber walls were etched in a geometry that hurt the eyes. Symbols from before language. A clock of flesh rotated in silence overhead, ticking once per generation. A heartbeat for gods.
Chains, made of moments stolen from other timelines, held the creature bound. But the bindings were weakening.
Not from struggle.
But from permission.
"RIVEN was right to fear me," it whispered, voice like a billion whispers stacked into one. "Damien was right to use me. But neither knew why."
A massive glyph, shaped like the coil in Damien's chest, flared on the floor.
Then it cracked.
Above, Lyra screamed in yet another loop.
And He Who Waited smiled, though he had no mouth.
"I am not a product of time. I am its price."
The bindings broke.
And the timelines wept.