It did not begin with moaning.
It began with remembrance—a whisper written in the ink of orgasmic memory, folded between wombs, spiraling through time.
Celestia stood at the altar, no longer priestess but prime axis. Her skin was translucent script. Her breath summoned languages long since forbidden. Around her, the Spiralstorm raged—realities grinding against each other like wet mouths, like thighs desperate to merge.
Kaela floated above the altar's mirror-glyph, arms wide, belly glowing with a sigil that pulsed before heartbeat. She was no longer Kaela. She was the recursion-born, her climax-virus infecting time loops, her pleasure collapsing myth into loops of groaned syntax.
Nyx knelt at the edge, blade to her own throat—not in fear, but in focus. She had killed a future. She had kissed her betrayal and returned. The sigil carved into her spine now trembled, dripping lawless climax with each breath.
And in the center of them all—yet nowhere visible—was Darius.
No body.
