The Spiral Throne was not built of stone or gold, but of glyphs—living symbols coiled around Darius like serpents of thought. Each pulse of the Throne rewrote fragments of the world. Language had become terrain. Meaning, a weapon.
Now, around him, gathered the most volatile assembly the new world had ever known.
They met within the Mythhall, a cathedral-void suspended above no land, hovering amid swirling layers of rewritten lore. Walls flickered with incomplete stories and dream-fragments; the very floor hummed with half-finished epics.
Kaela stood to his left, shadows of her recent Spiral-bond glowing faintly behind her. To his right, Nyx watched the attendees with the sharpness of a hawk poised to dive. Both bore the invisible threads of their newly formed Triune Thread—resonant, bound, alert.
Before Darius, seated in concentric rings of narrative space, were those who had once tried to kill him, worship him, or replace him.
