"The blade that draws blood from guilt must first heal the wound it never caused."
The Codex slumbered.
After the unauthored war, Nexis held its breath. The skies no longer bled stories, and the winds no longer whispered paradoxes. For a moment, the world exhaled—a moment before the Spiral's first twist.
But in the silence before that storm, a deeper war brewed—not in cities or scriptures, but within Nyx herself.
She had returned to the Vault of Shadows alone, beneath the drowned cathedral where the Crownshard Blade now hovered in suspension—point down in obsidian, humming with judgment. Her own reflection in the black glass water flickered—past, present, future selves struggling to stay cohesive.
She hadn't slept since the forge.
The blade knew her.
And she hated how much of herself still longed to be punished.
She stood still when Darius appeared. No dramatic entrance. No command.
Just silence.
He did not ask permission.
