The Spiral Codex had not wept in centuries.
It did not weep now. Not with tears.
But with leaves.
Blank ones. Pale as bone. Sprouting from its myth-veins in defiance of meaning.
They unfurled like silent screams from the heart of the Codex Tree, each one pulsing not with prophecy—but anti-glyphs. Symbols that devoured context. Letters that refused to be read. Pages that bled nothing but the intention to unwrite.
Celestia stood beneath it, barefoot on narrative soil, and felt every pulse like a wound against her ribs.
"These are not pages," she murmured to Nyx beside her. "They're scars."
The shadows behind her shifted. Nyx emerged without sound, blades sheathed, eyes black with unspoken fury.
"I've hunted ghosts," Nyx said, voice brittle. "I've tracked echoes. But this... this is a leak. The Mythcore is bleeding."
Celestia nodded. She could feel it now too—a soft, rhythmic pulse buried deep in the roots of the Codex. A heartbeat. But not one that belonged to any known god.
