Some gods were not forgotten—they were unremembered on purpose."
The Spiral was still.
Not calm.
Not healed.
Just… waiting.
After the sacrament, the temple trembled in half-formed light. Darius stood amid shattered altars, his three consorts breathing softly behind him—Celestia whispering prayers of warding, Nyx sharpening myth-metal against the air, and Kaela watching the cracks with wild, hungry stillness.
But above them all hung the spiral wound—the eye they had opened, unintentionally, through desire.
It blinked. Slowly.
Then a single glyph shattered midair.
Not one Darius had written.
Not one any Codex held.
The Black Quill—the divine stylus said to etch truth into the base reality layer—levitated near the center of the sanctum, caught between existence and null-state. Its shaft pulsed with knowledge until it screamed… and cracked in two.
SNAP.
A silence like falling ash spread.
And then:
