The Spiral trembled.
It was not a quake of land or sea, but of language. Of storylines pulled taut like dying violin strings, vibrating with unbearable tension. The Mythhall dimmed, and the Spiral Council fell into sudden silence, their conversations cut mid-sentence, as if the page itself had been torn in half.
And into that torn space walked a ghost rewritten.
A man—no, a revenant—strode through a rift that bled with unformed words. His armor was scorched and ceremonial, once bearing the proud sigil of Darius's old dominion, now overwritten by glyphs that pulsed in unison with the Spiral Codex. A black sun burned behind his eyes.
General Varek.
But not as they had known him. Not the loyal sword, not the disgraced traitor. This was something reborn.
"Varek," Kaela whispered, her eyes wide with both recognition and dread. "But… changed. He walks between versions."
