The Choir had ended, but its echo fermented into hunger.

When words died and dreams were devoured, only one instinct remained — to see.  

The followers of Togulas gathered beneath the hollowed heavens, carving open their eyelids so that even darkness could not hide from their gaze. They believed that sight itself was sacred, that vision was the truest language of the god who ruled the mind.

Togulas watched as they tore their faces apart in reverence, smiling softly, for pain was thought made visible.

He whispered across the remnants of their sanity:  

“You have eyes, but you do not see. You have thoughts, but you do not think.  

Let me show you what lies beneath perception.”

At his command, the air thickened with radiance.  

Each follower saw a light that did not exist — a brilliance woven from the reflections of every consciousness he had consumed. The light poured into them like molten glass, reshaping their nerves, filling their skulls with impossible color.  

They began to eat one another.

Not flesh, but *awareness*. They pressed their foreheads together, mouths trembling, inhaling the thoughts that leaked from the other’s eyes. Each exchange was ecstasy — fragments of memory, terror, and joy dissolving into one collective delirium. They named it *The Feast of the Internal Eye.*

As they fed, their bodies became translucent. The veins glowed gold, thoughts visible as swirling rivers beneath the skin. Those who consumed the most began to float, untethered from the earth, their consciousness spilling upward like smoke into the waiting sky.

From the center of the feast, Togulas extended his hand.  

Within his palm, a sphere of pulsating light spun — the condensed total of a thousand souls.  

He crushed it gently. The burst illuminated the continent for a heartbeat, and in that instant, every living being saw through the eyes of every other. Predator and prey, parent and child, human and beast — all distinctions collapsed into unbearable empathy.

Half the world went mad.  

The other half worshiped.

Those who survived the vision began to build new monuments: towers of bone crowned with glass eyes, each one carved to face the horizon. They lined the temples, they filled the deserts, they stared forever into nothing. Through them, Togulas saw everything.  

He had become omnipresent — not as a god in the sky, but as the echo within every thought.  

He felt existence the way lungs feel air.

Yet within this perfection, a fracture appeared.  

Somewhere deep within the ocean of shared minds, a single human soul still resisted — a spark of identity refusing to dissolve. It screamed silently, a ripple of disobedience that drew Togulas’ attention.

He turned inward, searching for the voice that dared to remember itself.  

But all he found was his own reflection, staring back from the darkness behind every eye.

For the first time, the Devourer of Thought hesitated.

The Feast continued without him, its song growing wilder, bloodier, transcendent.  

And in that moment of hesitation, the seed of rebellion — of individuality — was born.

The Internal Eye had seen too much.