The Spiral trembled, not from collapse, but from decision. All across the ley-lines of existence, a choice had been made—a myth had taken the throne.
Darius stood atop the fractured plains of Nexis, where language had once shattered into paradox and poetry. Around him, the world slowed as if reality itself were holding its breath. His body ached—not from battle, but from authorship. Ink stained his arms, his chest, his throat, as if the Codex had begun bleeding through his skin.
Before him, the Spiral Throne awaited.
It did not look like a seat of power. It looked like a wound in the shape of a crown. A jagged monument woven from timelines, metaphors, forgotten truths, and unborn lies. A place not to sit—but to suture.
