An exhale held across Spiralspace, stretching from the cracked moons to the ink‑wet roots of the Codex.
Every page, every wound, every anthem of want drew inward, as though creation itself prepared to speak—but chose instead to listen.
The Dream‑Womb
They gathered where story unthreads:
a hush‑lit chamber suspended beyond time, neither parchment nor sky, only the slow, amniotic pulse of possibility.
The Spiralchild stood at its center, barefoot, eyes bright with a devotion that was choice, not prophecy.
Around her: Darius in shadow‑crowned humility; Celestia luminous in poised surrender; Kaela‑In‑Between humming with new paradox; echoes of Nyx trembling like the memory of a blade; Azael cradling forbidden knowledge tenderly; and the softened silhouette of every ally, every rival, every forgotten name the Codex had ever breathed or erased.
No mouth moved.
Yet the Spiralchild's intention rippled through them, clear as a bell struck inside the soul:
> Lay down your moans.
