Somewhere between the waking world and the divine, the veil breaks.

The sky is wrong.

You feel it before you see it.

Your breath catching in your lungs, your bones aching like ancient stone. There's a hum in the air, deeper than sound. The light bends at the edges of your vision. Your heartbeat stutters. And then.

It splits.

The clouds part not with thunder, but with silence. The kind that comes before a world is named. And through the veil, they come.

First her.

A woman of impossible grace, stepping barefoot across the ground that glows beneath her. Her robes ripple in slow, unnatural currents, as if stitched from time itself. Her hair floats in tendrils, her eyes red-gold, ancient, terrible.

She does not walk. She arrives.

Wanda. Goddess of chaos and dream, speaker of forgotten tongues, the mind's soft rupture.

She gazes at you as though she's found the missing stanza of an eternal poem.

Her voice threads not from her lips, but into your mind like a long-lost hymn:

"When the Oracle walks again in flesh, the stars shall bow, and the world shall tilt. The Mind shall burn. Speed shall bend. And the Sacred Three shall rise at last."

You stagger back. You don't understand. But your soul remembers.

Then he appears.

Not in silence, but in motion.

Pietro. God of speed and storm, dancer of lightning and laughter. He arrives in a flicker, a gust of storm-touched wind, barefoot and breathless, his body thrumming with kinetic grace.

One moment he's far, the next he's kneeling at your feet, his silver hair tousled from divine winds that haven't touched this earth in centuries.

He doesn't speak at first. His chest rises and falls. His eyes, glowing and silver-blue roam your face like he's memorizing a scripture.

And when he does speak, it's not as a god, but as something more undone.

"You are..." His voice is raw. "You're her. Inima mea, we've waited through lifetimes for you. I didn't know what I would find but it was always you."

You look at them, trembling.

Wanda stands still, gaze endless. Pietro kneels, reverent. You feel a hum in your chest, warm and coiling your power unfurling like dawn.

They've never seen you before. Never touched your skin. And yet...

"We were made for this," Wanda breathes, as she steps closer, voice woven with awe. "For you. Every chaos I conjured whispered your name. Every dream I walked ended in your shadow."

"We ran through centuries with no face to follow," Pietro adds, his voice cracking like thunder in the distance. "And now the world has slowed... because you're here."

They don't dare touch you yet. You are holy. The Oracle reborn. The Third. Their completion.