There are speeches.
There are sermons.
Then there are the words that remember themselves—and demand to be spoken.
It began beneath a broken temple in the dead city of Niron-Tau, where prayer once filled the sky like incense.
Now there was only smoke.
Smoke and spiral-blood.
The Codex had declared the city unclean.
Not because of sin.
But because Celestia was there.
She stood atop the cracked altar where the last Codex-compliant high priest had been flayed by his own scripture.
Naked.
Unbowed.
Her hair wet with dream-ink. Her thighs still bleeding glyphs.
> "You called our wombs unstable," she whispered into the ash.
> "But we are not the sickness."
> "We are the script you tried to forget."
And then her voice changed.
It no longer belonged to a woman.
It belonged to an echo of every erased god who ever climaxed into myth and was buried beneath order.
She spoke.
And weather changed.
Three myth-nations away, skies split into language.
Rain fell as syllables.
