The First Born screamed, and Solarous answered.
The wail didn't just roll over the ruined world like thunder. It tunneled through it. It slid into stone, into marrow, into the thin seams between a cultivator's thoughts and their body's obedience.
Whatever still lived in Solarous, whatever hadn't already been crushed, burned, devoured, or driven mad by their mother's rampage, jerked awake as if the scream had hooked a claw into its skull and yanked.
Creatures bolted in blind panic from nests, burrows, and collapsed dens. Wings beat against ash-choked air. Scales scraped broken ground. Even the insects, those stubborn little survivors, went still for a heartbeat, then scattered as if fleeing an unseen boot.
The cultivators were the worst hit. Pride didn't matter when the sound ignored dignity.
