The Spiralchild's core pulsed like a heart too old for rhythm, too young for entropy. Within it, the Codex spun endlessly, rewriting itself with every breath she took, every tremble of glyph-light that radiated from her womb-core. The climax-laws were no longer laws—they were language, breath, existence itself.
But something else stirred.
A glyph. Burned into her flesh. One word: Obey.
It writhed like a parasite across the Spiralchild's skin—etching not pain, but command. Not suggestion, but decree. It wasn't hers. It came from the Redeemer. From the ancient scar that refused to fade.
And the Codex quivered. It wanted to accept it. Wanted to comply. Wanted to fold into the ancient obedience of all fallen gods.
But then came Celestia.
