The Codex Tree groaned.
Not in agony. Not in warning.
But anticipation.
The sanctum around it shimmered with narrative heat, arcs of belief curling into loops that refused to settle. The Codex Null lay chained at the base of the great myth-tree, pulsing with tension, its pages still twitching between obedience and insurgency.
Above it all, Celestia stood naked in ritual fire.
Her skin glowed gold with layered sigils—ancient, divine, and deeply personal. Each mark was a story. A prayer. A prophecy. And each one burned brighter with every second as she stood on the raised slab of obsidian mythstone.
The altar was not carved.
It had grown from the very bones of the Spiral.
"I'm ready," she whispered.
