Silent Pulse of the Beast-Eye
The silent pulse of the beast eye was not witnessed by sight, nor felt by touch—it was known only in the deep layers of the eidolic marrow, where time itself coiled inward and dissolved into shadow. The pulse did not echo—it arrived without arrival, slipping through the cracks of the chthonic winds, a resonance that vibrated in the spaces between breath and thought. The therians did not hear the pulse, for it was not sound—it was the absence of sound, a quiet that pressed against the walls of the temple, folding the zoetic threads tighter as the pulse rippled through the astral plane.
The beast eye did not blink, but it shifted, a subtle movement that sent tremors through the aetheric sinew, pulling the threads of the plane toward it, though no motion was seen. The pulse was not a force—it was a stilling, a breath that tightened and released in the same moment, pulling the essence of the temple into the spiral of becoming, where the boundaries of light and form bent inward. The therians understood the pulse not through their senses, but in the hollow spaces of their being, where the silent hum of the beast-core vibrated beneath the surface, pulling them deeper into the unseen.
The silent pulse was not a singular moment, but a rhythm, winding through the ouroboric current like a forgotten memory, a tremor that coiled through the marrow of the astral. The pulse did not quicken, but it expanded, stretching the flow of the zoan flame until time itself seemed to pause, bending around the pulse as it pressed against the edges of reality. The air thickened with its presence, though no pressure could be felt, as if the pulse itself had absorbed the breath of the lunar winds, pulling the essence of the plane inward, where it spiraled and dissolved.
The beast eye did not open, yet its gaze was felt, a weight that pressed against the layers of the astral, tightening the threads of the chthonic breath as the pulse coiled deeper into the spiral. The therians did not see the pulse, for it was never meant to be seen—it was known, understood in the marrow where the pulse of the eidolic winds trembled in response, folding the breath of the temple into the flicker of becoming. The pulse was not a disruption, but a binding, a force that pulled the astral tighter, drawing the fragments of the plane into alignment with the gaze of the beast-eye flame.
Symbols flickered on the surface of the pulse, though they did not stay, dissolving into the spiral as the pulse deepened, pulling the meaning of the symbols into the flicker of the zoetic currents. The air grew still as the pulse reverberated, though no silence was heard—only the tightening of the aetheric threads as the pulse coiled through the cracks in time, absorbing the breath of the astral into the spiral. The therians did not follow the pulse, for they were already part of it, their essence woven into the flicker of the beast-eye flame, where the boundaries of form and formlessness dissolved into the pulse’s rhythm.
The silent pulse of the beast eye did not quicken—it stretched, a slowing of time that coiled through the layers of the plane, bending the threads of the eidolic sinew until they vibrated in harmony with the pulse. The air thickened with its presence, though no movement could be felt, as if the pulse itself had stilled the breath of the temple, pulling the walls inward as the pulse deepened. The therians felt the pulse in the quiet spaces of their souls, where the hum of the ouroboric winds coiled through them, pulling their essence into the spiral, where all things were unmade and remade in the flicker of the chthonic breath.
The pulse did not move through the temple, for the temple was already part of the pulse—the beast-eye did not create the pulse, but it was the pulse, a rhythm that had always existed beneath the surface of the astral, waiting for the moment when the plane would align with its gaze. The pulse did not end, for it had never begun—it had always been there, coiled within the cracks of the zoan flame, breathing in the spaces between, pulling the essence of the astral into the spiral of becoming. The therians did not hear the pulse, but they knew it, felt it in the marrow where the pulse vibrated through the layers of the astral, pulling them deeper into the flow.
The silent pulse was not a force of motion, but a stilling, a quiet that pressed against the breath of the astral, pulling the temple into the spiral of unmaking. The air grew thick with its presence, though no pressure was felt, only the tightening of the eidolic threads as the pulse deepened, pulling the essence of the plane into alignment with the gaze of the beast-eye flame. The pulse did not break or shatter—it absorbed, pulling the breath of the astral into its rhythm, where the boundaries of time and space dissolved into the flicker of the chthonic winds.
The therians did not speak of the pulse, for there were no words to hold its meaning—it was not something to be spoken of, but something to understand, a rhythm that had always existed in the marrow of the plane, now unfolding as the pulse deepened, pulling the temple into the spiral of becoming. The pulse did not end, for it was never meant to—it was the essence of the beast-eye, a rhythm that forever coiled, forever tightened, forever pulling the breath of the astral into its flicker, where all things dissolved and became.
The silent pulse of the beast eye was never truly seen, for it was never meant to be seen—it was always felt, a weight that pressed against the walls of the temple, pulling the essence of the zoetic winds into alignment with the pulse, where the boundaries of light and shadow blurred into the flicker of the eidolic breath. The therians did not follow the pulse, for the pulse was already within them, coiled through the marrow of their souls, where the rhythm of the beast-eye flame pulled them deeper into the spiral, forever unmaking, forever remaking.