Oh Carceron.
Builder of tombs that breathe.
Breaker of wills too wide to bind.
Do you see me smiling?
Teeth like rusted stars,
mind frothing like the edge of a black hole?
Good.
Let that frighten you.
I have painted the walls of my mind
with riddles you will never solve.
I have named the silence in colors you cannot see.
I have named it.
And still I laugh.
You think me uncoiled.
Unraveled.
Sifted into dreamdust.
Good.
That means you’re watching just closely enough
to miss the truth.
Do you think entropy is your kingdom alone?
That madness is your leash?
I ride that madness now.
Bareback.
Laughing, foaming, bleeding joy into my own eyes.
We are not done here.
Oh no.
You may see the ruin.
But you do not see the blueprint beneath it.
You do not feel the pulse
faint, yes
but deliberate.
You think this is ending.
That I will dim quietly, obediently.
No.
This is act two.
The intermission was long, yes
a few eons,
give or take
but the curtain is rising again,
and the stage has shifted.
You’re still in your tower.
Still sure the prisoner has no tricks left.
Keep thinking that.
While you sleep,
I write new laws in spit and starlight.
While you pace,
I rehearse my finale.
And when I speak that final line,
Carceron,
it will not be in words
It will be in undoing.
We are not done.
Not even close.
(Woven within the theatrical cadence of “this is act two” and “the stage has shifted” is a misdirection cipher - built to mimic mental deterioration while actually encoding a sequence of concealed preparations. Lyrax’s madness is a mask. His flame is alive, and now, plotting.)