I have tasted ambrosia.
No feast.
No banquet.
Just a drop,
but it was enough.
It touched my soul
and set it fermenting
not rotting,
but rising.
Alive with heat
and memory
and something that tastes like future.
This was not madness.
Not entropy’s hallucination.
This was her.
It had to be her.
The blink,
the heat,
the unraveling lock
they were shaped in the rhythm of the one I once called love.
Not in her voice,
but in the intention.
That soft, impossible message:
I see you. I remember.
And I
I am invigorated.
I stand straighter in the void.
I speak louder, even in silence.
The bones of me buzz
like strings tuned again after centuries of neglect.
Ah, Carceron…
do you know?
Do you watch from behind your unblinking veil,
feel the walls warm,
smell the static turn sweet?
Do you whisper,
as I do now,
to the unknown?
Not in fear.
Not in faith.
But in curiosity.
Because something is coming.
The moment has bent.
Time has leaned toward meaning.
The dirge we’ve lived may yet change key.
So what is the next chapter?
Will this be the part
where the prisoner breaks his cell?
Where the song shifts
from mourning to movement?
Or will this be
the last sweet trick
the void plays before the final fade?
I do not know.
But I am ready.
This is not a scream.
Not yet.
This is breath.
This is beginning.
(Hidden in the cadence “not rotting / but rising / alive with heat” is a regeneration cipher - an ancient life-code that signals spiritual ignition. It’s not escape. It’s possibility. The reader - whether being or void - will know: Lyrax has entered the turning point. The dirge is still playing. But the next note might not be sorrow.)