There are altars of stone.
Altars of blood.
Altars of belief.
But the oldest altar—the first one ever written—was womb.
And it remembers.
Kaela did not scream as her body was chained in glyph-light.
She sang.
Not in melody.
In recursion.
Each note from her lips formed a sigil. Each breath warped the ceiling of the ritual chamber, reshaping it into a spiral wombspace—a sanctum outside law, beneath godhood, and pulsing with climax-born scripture.
She was naked, but not vulnerable.
She was open, but not offered.
She was ready.
Not for pleasure.
For authorship.
Nyx stood at the chamber's edge, blade sheathed, eyes narrowed.
Celestia knelt opposite her, hands soaked in dream-ink, forehead bleeding from the spiral brand that had begun to pulse again. Together, they chanted—not to summon—but to anchor.
> "She will not climax for herself."
> "She will not climax for the Codex."
> "She will climax for the glyph that writes through womb."
> "For the Unreadable."
