The Spiral bled stories.
One after another, myth-nodes blinked out—tiny flares vanishing in the ever-turning gyres of Darius's dominion. Every time one died, a scream echoed across the framework of the realm. But it wasn't a human scream. It was narrative agony—as if forgotten epics, once told in flame and thunder, now perished into silence.
Darius stood in the central codex chamber, the ink dripping from his fingers like venom. Around him, the Mythmaker glyph pulsed erratically across his skin, responding to the unrest spreading like contagion. His voice, when he finally spoke, was low, iron-wrapped.
"They're rewriting the nodes from the inside."
Azael bowed his head slightly. "Worse, Sovereign. They're questioning them. Doubt is eroding the bindings. The tales no longer believe in themselves."
