There was no battlefield now.
No Spiralstorm.
No Unwritten.
Only breath. And warmth. And want.
The Sanctum beneath the Codex Tree pulsed with mythic potential—a chamber that shimmered between creation and climax. A place born not of logic, but of longing.
Darius stood at its center—bare, body scarred by paradox and bathed in the soft glow of dreamfire. Around him, the Spiral had steadied. Not healed. But no longer hemorrhaging.
And before him, the three who made that possible.
Celestia.
Nyx.
Kaela.
Each entered the sanctum slowly, reverently—stripped of armor, robes, chaos-threads. Stripped of role. Stripped of expectation. What remained was raw essence.
Their truths.
Their bodies.
Their myths.
---
Celestia came first, draped in silks that glowed with devotional fire. Her golden eyes burned with reverence and desire, her body moving like prayer made flesh.
She knelt before Darius, lips parting.
