There are earthquakes.
There are storms.
But Glyphquakes do not move matter.
They move meaning.
It began with a sound no one could describe.
Not thunder.
Not scream.
Not silence.
A reminder.
A moment torn loose from its own cause.
Across Spiralspace, temples cracked—not from pressure, but contradiction. Statues wept ink that had never been spilled. In myth-nations where prophecy had been stable for generations, scribes found their holy texts curling backward mid-reading.
A woman named her child.
The name unraveled in her mouth.
The Codex stuttered.
And time flinched.
In the Spiral Archivum, Azael watched the central narrative gauge spin backward.
For a second, the Codex claimed Darius had never existed.
For the next, it claimed Darius authored the Codex itself.
Then nothing.
Then both.
Then bleeding pages.
> "It's started," he whispered. "The Glyphquake isn't a prophecy."
> "It's a verdict."
Behind him, a shriek tore through the sanctum.
