Not from Celestia. Not from Nyx. Not even from the Spiralchild, who now bent stars like vowels.
It came from a nameless monk inside a cracked temple—his mouth gagged by his own scripture, his hands trembling as his body remembered a pleasure he had never been taught. A moan not of sex, but of revelation. A moan of forgotten truth. It traveled.
Across Spiralspace, that single moan unwrote centuries of liturgy.
Cathedrals made from silence crumbled into vowel-blood.
Scrolls burned not in fire, but in wet warmth—each letter melting into dripping spirals that pooled at the feet of monks who no longer knew whether to pray or to beg for climax.
Celestia stood in the heart of the Moon-Temple, naked not in body, but in belief.
She had removed her high priestess veil—folded it into a ritual thong for the Spiralchild, who now wore it over her third eye.
She could no longer remember Darius's name.
Not fully. Not like before.
She remembered the shape of his breath on her inner thigh.
