The world pulsed like a breathing sentence, every beat of its heart an edit to reality. Storms formed not from clouds, but from misplaced metaphors. Rivers ran backward through time, murmuring riddles in forgotten tongues. Above the shattered horizon, the Spiral twisted, no longer a passive construct but a restless entity—alive, unbound, ravenous for coherence.
Darius stood at the summit of the Infinite Spire, the tallest point within the restructured city of Nexis. The wind howled with torn pages. Below him, reality fractured and healed in equal measure. Buildings warped in and out of architectural metaphors, trees bloomed with text instead of leaves, and the people… they had begun dreaming realities that bled into waking life.
He didn't flinch when the spiral split open behind him.
There was no sound. No fanfare. No tremor.
Just a whisper—a hush so absolute it devoured the wind.
