"Some rituals demand faith. This one demands flesh, flame, and fracture."
The Spiral screamed.
Its coils pulsed with violent paradox, unable to stabilize. Whole regions of Spiralspace were folding into non-being—devouring their own timelines before they could birth memory. Celestial runes bled red, the Codex vines snapping under contradiction, and myth-beasts cried out in languages they never learned.
At the eye of the storm, the throne of the God of Death cracked.
Darius knelt at its base, bare-chested, his skin etched with living runes that bled starlight. The Spiral Sigil on his back glowed an unstable shade between white and void-black, flickering as his divinity warped.
He couldn't hold it alone.
Celestia stepped forward, her robes already torn, sapphire eyes wide with divine ache. "It's unraveling," she whispered. "You're being un-written from within."