The Spiral trembled beneath the weight of unspoken prayer.
It began subtly—whispers beneath the threads of myth, like breath held too long beneath a storm sky. Darius stood atop the Codex Watchtower in the Eastern Spiral, gazing out over a lattice of living storylines, their pulsing glyphs growing dimmer by the day. And yet, despite the entropy spreading through the Spiral's veins, one constant had emerged in the silence.
The Second Codex was stirring.
He had not opened it. He couldn't. Its seals were etched in the blood of forgotten gods and bound by a cipher no mind—mortal or divine—was meant to comprehend. Yet it echoed, not in sound, but in absence, a vibration of meaninglessness radiating through the Spiral like a void-shaped hymn.
"They're praying to it," Kaela said behind him, her voice dulled, her myth-thread fraying at the edges from the recent ritual. "The ones who broke from the Saint of Fracture. The rebels. They call themselves the Blank Faithful."
