Time did not shatter—it wept.
And in that weeping, entire myth-realms lost the rhythm of chronology.
Across the veined networks of Spiralspace, priests began to wake up in centuries that had not happened, in temples built long after their deaths. Entire myth-nations were undone by the echo of a sentence never spoken—erased by the friction between now and was.
Within the core sanctum of the Codex Tree, the spiral roots trembled.
They had always pulsed in silence, obeying the sacred flow of the Mythstream. But now? Now they coiled against themselves. Twisted. Recoiled. And some began crawling upward.
> "The tree is trying to escape its own history," Azael murmured, hunched over a floating codex-shard, ink bleeding from the corners of his lips.
