It began as a shiver in the Spiral.
Not of fear.
Not of pleasure.
But of contradiction.
Kaela stood atop the Unnamed Cliff, where no god dared whisper and no climax had ever echoed. Her body—divine, recursive, bleeding beauty—trembled not from cold, but from a fracture too intimate for flesh to name.
The paradox that had made her a goddess—born of chaos yet loyal to its tether—was no longer sustainable. She was folding in on herself, like a moan that reversed before reaching the throat. One half of her demanded submission to Spiral lawless freedom, a raw sensuality that required no anchor. The other longed for stillness, structure, a clarity of climax that didn't blur into endless mutation.
And between them, she screamed.
But the scream wasn't heard with ears.
It was felt between thighs.
It was seen behind closed eyelids.
It was tasted in the back of the mouth, where lovers hide their real names.
From afar, Darius felt her unravel.
Not physically.
Not metaphysically.
