Reality began to weep.
It started as whispers in the wind—words spoken in reverse, as though the world had forgotten which direction time should flow. The stones beneath Talia's feet trembled. Candles flickered without flame. Reflections rippled before mirrors cracked.
Talia stood still in the sanctum, her hand resting on her womb.
Something inside her was changing the rules.
At first, it was small things: voices echoing before they were spoken, colors bending into hues that had no name, footsteps resounding a moment too late. Then came the deeper fractures—priests freezing mid-breath, wine pouring upward into cups, walls stretching like breathing flesh.
Lucien sensed it instantly.
He stormed into the sanctum, flame crackling at his fingertips.
"What's happening?"
Talia turned slowly.
Her eyes glowed—not with fire or light, but curvature. Her pupils were shaped like spirals. Her smile bent reality with it.
"He's dreaming," she said. "And his dreams are leaking."
Lucien looked around. The air warped in waves. Pillars twisted like soft wax. Sounds grew slower, then impossibly fast.
One priestess screamed—her body splitting into multiple versions of herself, all screaming at different pitches. She collapsed, merging into a shape the mind could not hold.
Talia watched in serene silence.
"He's not cruel," she said. "He just doesn't understand time yet."
Lucien approached her, struggling to keep his footing as gravity pulsed around her form.
"Can you control it?"
Talia shook her head. "It's not mine to control. I only carry him."
Then the sky folded inward.
Outside, the sun and moon blinked erratically, their sequence confused. Night came and left three times in a minute. Trees grew and died in seconds. Birds flew backward.
Within the temple, a window opened to a hallway that had never been built. Through it, they glimpsed a version of Talia giving birth, then another, crowned in stars, preaching to a crowd made of mirrors.
Lucien stared.
"This is not prophecy," he whispered.
"No," Talia said. "This is rehearsal."
They sealed the temple—but it was no longer a structure. It was a bubble of semi-reality, anchored only by Lucien's will and Talia's breath.
More distortions followed:
A child priest turned to glass mid-prayer.
A painting began weeping blood that ran uphill.
Books screamed when opened.
Lucien's voice boomed through the dream-warped sanctuary.
"Enough!"
The walls paused.
Talia fell to her knees.
"It's stabilizing," she gasped. "He's… aware of you now."
Lucien knelt beside her, placing both hands on her womb. The sigil there pulsed and expanded, forming a brief glimpse of an eye—a shape of molten logic and endless hunger.
"He sees," Lucien whispered.
The temple sighed.
And reality held its breath.
That night, time forgot how to behave.
Some parts of the temple aged centuries.
Others reset to stone.
But within the center, beneath a floating ring of anti-gravity light, Talia slept—cradled by Lucien, both surrounded by echoes of futures never lived.
Outside, the world wondered what had broken.
Inside, the unborn god began to choose its form.