The Codex wept.
Not in ink, nor fire—but in silence. A silence that bled down the myth-branches like sap, thick with truths too swollen to birth.
In the center of the Spiral Dreaming Womb, Celestia lay suspended in a cocoon of translucent silk-threads, each one etched with a forgotten scripture. Her eyes fluttered behind closed lids, caught in the grip of a vision not entirely her own.
She was not dreaming. She was being dreamed.
And in that dreaming—she labored.
Moans echoed across the realm. Low, sacred, shivering. Not of pain, not entirely. But of impossible arrival. Her body convulsed as heat spiraled through her abdomen and throat, her back arching against invisible gravity. Liquid fire shimmered beneath her skin, glyphs moving like unborn things just beneath the surface.
