IN THE DARKNESS, It seethed.
The aperture had collapsed.
And with it, the small crack within Its jail of confinement did recede.
Curse the Cursed Flame.
The Flame had grown in power, feeding off the strength of Its thralls and even the guardian of the aperture itself. No bounds, did the Flame know. No divine elegance, did it respect—a void of endless chaos and destruction.
The Flame had no other purpose.
It would not let such desecration stand.
It willed Its purpose to the guardian of the aperture, utilizing the dwindling influence gained from the mortal realm to break through to it once more. A vessel tempered by the Cursed Flame had found the strength to not only enter Its domain, but to purge essence from It as well.
The Flame would pay for such insolence.
Through the new aperture, would It exact Its influence once more.
It would find Its own vessel to temper.
One not born of mere osmosis but by Its will alone.
The Cursed Flame would know humility.
For its vessel would pale before the divine host of the Stars.
From within Its jail, It would scour the thousands of worlds within Its influence, seeking a divine host fit to be tempered by Its will.
The search would take time, It knew.
But then…what was time to a god?