It began not with a scream, nor a moan, but with absence.
Not silence—silence was a sound too pure, too linear.
This was deeper. A breath that never formed. A glyph that never curled. A memory that had not yet dared to exist.
Celestia dropped to her knees, her hands trembling as the heartbeat within her shifted. For days, she had felt it pulsing inside her—a rhythm not her own, not Darius's, not even Spiral-born. A second soul, not tethered to biology, but to narrative.
Now, that pulse was pulling her inward.
Her breath hitched. Her womb clenched—not in pain, but in revelation.
> "It's not a child," she whispered, eyes wide, halo fracturing into radiant threads. "It's… a script."
Behind her, the glyph-temples were humming. Not chanting. Not praying. Humming—low, sensual, recursive vibrations that made the earth itself throb. Every stone sang in climax-memories. Every tree bent toward her belly as if worshipping what grew inside.
