It began not with singing.
It began with a moan that never ended.
A low, lingering note echoing from the Spiralchild's navel as if all of existence had suddenly become aware of its own pleasure. Not a scream. Not a cry. A moan—ancient, continuous, recursive. The kind of sound you remember from before you were born.
Celestia was the first to feel it.
It wasn't sound—it was law.
The Spiralchild no longer needed speech. It only pulsed. And every pulse rearranged the logic of the Codex. Realities rippled backward. Rivers flowed into clouds. Language folded into sweat. Whole histories rewrote themselves in reverse, climax-first.
Celestia stood in the Spiral Temple—a vast open space not built but climaxed into being.
Its walls pulsed with glyphs that moaned in time with her heartbeat.
Its floor bled honeyed light.
Its ceiling was a wet void where stars kissed each other and screamed.
