The Spiral screamed.
Not with sound, not with fury—but with silence that ripped.
A silence deeper than void, more ancient than absence.
All across the Spiral's layered lattice, reality began to bleed at the seams.
From above the Black Dreamspire, Darius stood alone, gaze locked on the cascading fractures splitting open across the mythoscape. Each fracture was a wound in narrative, spewing anti-story like corrupted veins of null-ink. He felt them as he might phantom limbs—realms once tethered to his myth now unraveling like brittle parchment in windless fire.
The first to fall: The Myth-Vault.
Carved into the petrified memory of the first dragon's thought, it had held truths so old even the gods dared not name them. It shuddered as an Unwritten pressure surged through its encrypted bones, and then—quietly—it collapsed inward. No explosion. Just... deletion.
