The Temple of Versions was not built. It was remembered.
Its walls were formed from regrets, its floor paved with the bones of paths never taken. Doorways bent inward, each leading to timelines Darius had never walked but somehow still carried within his soul. It did not stand in one location, nor one time. The Temple was summoned, not entered—called forth by mythic introspection.
And now it answered.
Darius stepped through a gate of shimmering non-time, barefoot, breath shallow. The Spiral pulsed behind him, but he could no longer feel its rhythm. Here, he was severed from authorship, divinity, and even from belief.
Here, he was simply... Darius.
Before him stood the first version.
A boy-king crowned in fear. His eyes shone with ambition but lacked purpose. He ruled through terror because he had not yet learned seduction. This version had conquered, yes—but alone, brittle, unanchored by love or myth.
