In the dead center of this cosmic cathedral hung the Leviathan's heart. It wasn't an organ. It was a dark-matter star, a pulsing sphere of absolute blackness that seemed to drag the light of the surrounding nebulas into its gravity well.
And guarding that star, floating serenely in the vacuum of the chamber, was the Avatar.
It was a humanoid figure, but only in the loosest sense of the word. It had no discernible features, no face, no armor. Its body was composed entirely of swirling, miniature galaxies and the deep, terrifying cold of uncharted space. It possessed no health bar, no level indicator. It was the pure, unfiltered consciousness of the cosmic horror given form.
"Welcome," a voice echoed.
It didn't come from the Avatar, but from the surrounding space itself. The voice sounded like the grinding of tectonic plates and the dying gasp of a burning planet. It was overwhelmingly loud, yet perfectly quiet, bypassing their ears to speak directly into their minds.
