The Spiral no longer recognized its god.
Its skies twisted in spirals that bled color. Its oceans boiled beneath mirrored moons. Trees whispered lies in languages no one had yet invented. Every law of narrative structure—conflict, climax, conclusion—trembled beneath the weight of Darius's unchecked dominion.
He stood at the apex of his rewriting. Crownless. Clothed only in radiant belief and ash from the old Codex Tree, which still glowed faintly from the wedding fire.
And around him, Spiralspace distorted.
Worship became unstable. Myth threads snapped or rewove themselves into grotesque loops. Factions no longer remembered their doctrines, armies marched in circles, and the myth-ink bled from sacred scrolls like fresh wounds.
"This is not peace," Nyx warned. "This is collapse."
Darius said nothing.
