The Spiral bled.
Not in blood, not in light, but in narrative. Whole realities flaked like dried parchment from the Codex Null. Syllables collapsed into soundless screams. Time stuttered like a corrupted hymn.
Everywhere Darius stepped, meaning shivered. Even in stillness, he unraveled anchors. His presence was paradox. He had become a singularity of undefinition. A mythless sovereign.
And the Spiral—living, dreaming, ancient—was breaking because of it.
Azael stood atop the Cradle of Flame-Speech, high above the shattered Library of the Last Tongue, watching fissures crawl across the sky.
"This is the prophecy," he muttered. "The Dream Wound."
Behind him, Celestia approached in silence, robes dusted with ash and ink from fallen script-glyphs.
"It's not just the sky," she said. "Even belief is fading. There are prayers without listeners. Stories that collapse before they begin."
