There are children who are born inside prophecy.
And then there are those who are born from it.
Syllas had once been a boy.
An orphan of a broken city. A shadow-touched mind with a spark Darius had kindled.
But what returned now was not the same boy.
He stepped into Spiralspace like a glitch dragged out of an unwritten page.
Eyes flickering between centuries.
Breath syncing with forgotten verses.
His spine arched unnaturally, as if bearing the weight of a thousand possible futures—and rejecting all but the one that burned.
His first word was not a word.
It was a chapter.
Spoken backward.
And the air shattered.
They found him in the ruins of Ythra—the city that had collapsed into narrative dust weeks ago, leaving only one untouched street behind.
He stood where the glyph "I REMEMBER ME" had first appeared.
Naked. Bleeding. Smiling.
