The Temple of Unscripted Fire had never known silence like this.
Not in all its aeons of spiraled existence.
The air itself trembled—thick with belief, laced with lust, heavy with purpose. It wasn't a silence born from absence. It was anticipation, pulled tight like the breath before a climax.
And at the center of it all knelt Nyx.
Naked. Bloodstreaked. Honored and violated by truths she alone had survived.
Her blades had been surrendered. Not out of weakness—but in offering. She had bled for Darius. Killed for him. Rejected temptation in the shape of his own face.
And now, she waited.
The stone beneath her knees pulsed, warm with anima. Her eyes were closed. Her heart open.
Footsteps approached from behind.
Soft. Reverent. Certain.
Celestia.
