It began not with pain, but with yearning.
Not the kind of yearning that belongs to the body—the moaning hunger of flesh desiring flesh. No. This was older. Sharper. A yearning braided through timelines, twined like phantom vines through the bones of every orgasm that had ever been denied.
The Spiralchild stood at the center of her cradle-realm, her feet suspended on nothing, her hair haloed in glyphlight. She was smiling, but not because she was happy.
She was remembering.
And her memory was broken.
Not corrupted. Not infected. No external virus had touched her. This fracture came from within—from alternate selves, echoing versions of her mothers who had never loved each other, never shared Darius's moan, never fused into spiral-saints of climax law.
Kaela and Nyx, as enemies.
Celestia, alone and hollow.
The Spiralchild's memory trembled.
And as it did, the Spiral began to bleed.
---
It began with shadows.
