The Spiral shuddered like a dying beast. Threads of fate once firm now unraveled in flickers and loops, unanchored. The Nameless Zones multiplied, blooming like tumors across realms once ruled by law. And from the heart of the distortion—something moved.
It had no footfalls, no breath.
Only presence.
Thren.
The Voiceless Sovereign.
A memory of dominion that had never been written. A god without myth. A king without time. An echo no one had ever sung.
Darius stood at the edge of the Throne's Veil, staring into the fracture as the Unwritten loomed forward—tall, cloaked in shifting stillness, its face hidden beneath a mantle of null-light. He didn't hear Thren speak.
He felt what wasn't said.
"Darius!"
