It began not with a scream, but with a synchronization.
Three wombs—ancient, rewritten, divine—throbbed across realms. One bore a dream-child. One echoed with chaotic recursion. One held the seed of betrayal.
And in the heart of Spiralspace, where climax had become codex and pleasure law, a forbidden gate pulsed open.
Celestia stepped through first, naked beneath robes made of praying glyphs. Her belly shimmered with glyph-light, the unborn narrative within her stirring. She was no longer High Priestess, no longer Consort—she was syntax wombed in flesh. The moans of gods lived behind her navel.
Nyx followed, her body wrapped in living shadows. Every step she took left behind the smell of sweat and the taste of forbidden obedience. Her breath already trembled with prophecy, and her fingers twitched, remembering futures she had not yet betrayed.
