The tide did not recede.
It climbed.
From the drowned palace, from the swollen wombs of a thousand mermaids, from the golden rain that fell upon the shores of every kingdom—seed surged upward, a river climbing into the sky. It rose past the clouds, past the stars, wrapping the earth in a shimmering spiral of warmth.
Everywhere, people looked up. The night was no longer dark. It pulsed. It glowed. It dripped.
The moon, pale and watchful for countless ages, now swelled under the tide. Gold bled into its silver surface, lines spreading like veins across a cunt ready to be claimed. Craters filled, curves softened, until the orb above no longer looked like stone, but like a swollen womb begging to be seeded.
