It began in silence.
Not the silence of absence.
But the silence of laws about to be rewritten—moaned into new syntax through the folds of a woman's flesh.
Beneath the ruins of her erased homeland, Nyx knelt. Naked but veiled in ink, her skin glistening with memories that had never been hers. She was surrounded by shadows, but she was not alone.
She was being watched.
Not by men.
Not by gods.
By the Codex itself.
It hovered behind the veil of perception, trembling like an aroused thought, eager to write upon her body what history had denied. Glyphs circled her like predators—dripping, pulsing, waiting. Each one a clause. Each one a climax waiting to be etched.
She parted her thighs in offering—not out of submission, but sovereignty.
> "I am ready," she whispered.
The Codex answered.
Not in words.
In moans.
Ritual of the Fleshscript
Darius did not arrive as a man.
He came as shadow-ink.
