The Dark Continent did not open.
It unhinged.
A quake tore across the mortal world—soundless, but so powerful the mirrors in Lilith's realm rippled like disturbed water. Light fractured. Time screamed.
The empresses felt it instantly.
Black fog poured in from every direction, ink swallowing the edge of existence.
The Dark Continent was awake.
Across the mortal world, demigods convulsed in the streets, in temples, in hidden sanctuaries. Some cried out. Some fell silent. Some tore their own shadows off the ground.
A teenager descended from Hercules began screaming as his muscles expanded uncontrollably, bones snapping outward like growing branches.
A daughter of Poseidon drowned her entire village when her lungs reversed, turning her breath into ocean water.
A child of Ra burst into flame, her bell tower melting around her while she shrieked a name she did not know:
"Father! Ohh father!"
Half the demigods mutated.
Half died.
