The grey didn't end.
It stretched in every direction, swallowing distance and time until Lucifer lost track of how long they'd been walking. His boots made no sound. Damaris's wings left no shadow. The memory stones they'd collected pulsed faintly in his father's robe, the only proof that anything existed beyond this endless nothing.
Then the ground stopped.
Not gradually. Suddenly.
One step, cracked earth. The next, empty air.
Lucifer caught himself at the edge, his shadows anchoring him to the lip of the cliff. Below—nothing. Above—nothing. Ahead—
A structure.
It floated in the void like a corpse in deep water. Massive. Ancient. Built from black stone that absorbed what little light existed. Its walls were covered in writing—every language ever spoken, and some that had never been spoken aloud. The words crawled across the surface, rearranging themselves when Lucifer tried to read them.
Damaris stood beside him, his wings half-spread.
"The Library of Lost Names."
