The Codex did not scream.
It convulsed.
Pages that had once obeyed the sacred laws of sequence and truth now writhed, curling inward like burned leaves. The glyphs on them did not vanish—they bled. Down the bark of the Myth-Tree. Into the rivers of narrative. Into Kaela's hands.
She stood at the base of the Codex, where no mortal had walked since the spiral was first etched into existence. Not even gods came here willingly anymore.
But she was not seeking gods.
She was seeking futures.
Even the broken ones.
—
Around her, the blank pages trembled.
Each one a reality Darius had once written… and the Codex had buried.
Corrupted. Deleted. Condemned.
Now they tore loose from the tree like dying stars, spinning toward her in a cyclone of possible tomorrows. Each one pulsed with a question:
> What if he hadn't died?
What if he ruled unopposed?
What if he loved you above all others?
