Time unraveled like a ribbon scorched at both ends.
The Spiral's winds no longer whispered prophecy—they screamed revision. Entire histories reversed themselves mid-sentence. Myths that once stood eternal flickered, bled, and collapsed into ash, only to reemerge rewritten.
At the center of it all stood Syllas.
The Inkwrought Heir.
He was no longer a child—not entirely. His eyes were glowing knots of paradox. His body stretched and compressed between ages, flickering between infant, boy, youth, man. Even gender was fluid around him. He was becoming more… or less… than a fixed thing.
Celestia watched in horror as Syllas stood on the mirrored hill outside the Temple of Thread. Each step he took shattered time beneath him. Flowers aged into dust, regrew, and then pulsed out of sequence.
Kaela murmured, "He's not just rewriting history. He's folding it."
Darius approached the boy, hand extended.
