A splintering groan tore through the air, thick with the scent of pulverised stone and something acrid, like ozone mixed with despair. Barlas blinked, a heavy film of dust coating his tongue. One moment, he’d been staring at the perpetually half-eaten sandwich on his desk, the next, this. Not his desk. Not his world. He lay splayed on flagstones, warm and ancient beneath his back, but the *above* was all wrong. Where a solid, vaulted ceiling should have been, a chaotic spiral of dark grey winds, streaked with sickly purple, clawed at the sky. Massive timbers, ripped from their moorings, scythed through the air like discarded toys. The sanctuary city of Firouz, or what was left of its Sunlit Terrace, looked like a child’s fortress after a tantrum. Alarm twitched through him, but years of deflecting bullets and knife-wielding fanatics locked his pulse down. He simply observed. Then he saw her. A slip of a girl, no older than sixteen, with eyes like startled gazelles and hair the colour of polished obsidian. She wore robes of deep azure, embroidered with silver stars, and for a terrifying second, she was frozen, staring up at a support beam—a veritable tree trunk—plummeting directly towards her. Her mouth was agape, a soundless gasp. “Hey!” Barlas roared on reflex. He scrambled to his feet, sudden unnatural speed propelling him forward. The stone floor cracked beneath his first step, a spiderweb radiating outwards, though Barlas didn't notice. He didn't make it in time. The beam, thicker than his torso, hit the flagstones where she'd stood just a moment before, sending up a geyser of shattered rock and dust. The girl was propelled sideways by the shockwave, landing in a crumpled heap, barely escaping the direct impact. Barlas was there in an instant, a hurricane of concern. He knelt beside her, checking for injuries, his calloused hands surprisingly gentle, even as his face contorted into a furious mask. “What in the seven hells were you thinking, standing there like a statue? Are you hurt? Speak up, girl! You have to be more careful!” He coughed, a dry, rattling sound. The dust, thick and pervasive, was getting everywhere. It coated his throat, stung his eyes, and invaded his nostrils. It wasn't just construction debris; it felt *alive*, a corrosive grit that vibrated with malevolent energy. A familiar tickle began deep within his sinuses. Barlas hated dust. Hated it. He tried to hold it back, a lifetime of suppressing sneezes in tense situations—stakeouts, funerals, important meetings—kicking in. But this dust felt different, insistent, almost demanding release. His nose twitched. His eyes watered. It was going to be a big one. He turned his head away from Tala, lest he spray her with whatever vile particles were irritating him, and braced himself. His chest heaved, his shoulders tensed. The air around him shimmered, unseen forces coiling. “A… *achoo!*” The sound was not a sneeze. It was a detonation. A concussive wave of pure, unadulterated force erupted from Barlas’s face, not a whisper of a cough or a sniffle, but a roar that vibrated through the very bedrock of Firouz. The Miasma Gale, the apocalyptic storm that had been tearing the sky apart moments before, simply *vanished*. Not dissipated, not weakened, but erased. The swirling purple-black mass, the lightning, the howling winds—all of it ceased to exist as if it had never been. The remaining debris, suspended mid-air, was pulverized into fine sand. The sky above the Sunlit Terrace was suddenly, shockingly, clear. A brilliant, unfiltered sun, warm and life-giving, shone down on a world that had, for a fleeting second, been on the brink of oblivion. [Divine Grace: Breath of the World-Ender] The golden script, visible to everyone but Barlas, hung in the now-pristine air for a long moment, shimmering with ethereal light, before fading into nothingness. Tala, who had been dazed moments before, now stared, not at Barlas, but at the empty sky, then at the spot where the golden script had been. Her jaw went slack. Her large, dark eyes, wide and luminous, slowly turned to Barlas. There was no fear, no daze. Only a profound, unshakeable reverence. Slowly, deliberately, Tala pushed herself up, her movements stiff. She ignored the splintered wood and scattered stones. With a soft, shuddering breath, she lowered herself to her knees before Barlas, her head bowed low, her hands pressed together in a gesture of absolute devotion. Tears, silent and reverent, tracked paths down her cheeks. Other survivors, emerging from their hiding spots, their faces streaked with soot and terror, saw the spotless blue sky, then saw the kneeling girl. Then they saw the fading afterglow of the golden script. One by one, they, too, began to sink to their knees, murmuring in awestruck tones. Barlas, oblivious to the divine proclamations and the growing throng of worshippers, scowled at Tala. “What are you doing, girl? Get up! You’ll get your pretty robes filthy, kneeling on this rubble. There’s still dust everywhere, look! And you’re crying! Are you hurt? Tell me where it aches!” He reached out, trying to lift her, but she remained steadfast, her head bowed even lower. He sighed, a frustrated huff. “Honestly, you people are completely impossible. You need to take better care of yourselves. How am I supposed to protect you if you insist on rolling around in the dirt?” He paused, his gaze sweeping the ruined terrace, the now-calm sky. “Well, at least the dust is gone.” Just as he said it, a shadow bloomed across the sun, cold and vast. It was not a cloud. It was a woman, colossal in scale, her form made of weeping darkness, materializing in the very fabric of the sky above Firouz. She was colossal, translucent, her features blurred by a constant cascade of shimmering, sorrowful tears that seemed to fall into the world without ever reaching the ground. Her mouth was open in a silent, cosmic wail that nonetheless echoed in the very bones of everyone who witnessed it. Barlas stiffened, not from fear, but from profound unease. The entity was terrifying, an embodiment of pure, unadulterated grief. And yet… there was something in its desolate magic, its crushing aura of heartbroken sorrow, that felt hauntingly, terrifyingly familiar. He’d only known it in one other place, long ago, on another world. A place he’d sworn he’d never forget. He knew this grief. He knew this magic. This raw, world-shattering despair. The Sleeping Goddess had begun to stir.

The Sneeze That Shattered the Apocalypse