You butcher of kings. Warden of the soulless.
Architect of the cage I rot in.
You think this silence is surrender?
No.
It is the drawing back of a blade before the strike.
You took him from me.
Unmade my Lyrax
not in battle, not in war,
but in some quiet, sterile chamber where no one could hear his last breath.
You didn’t kill a man.
You erased a myth.
You stole the fire that kept me human.
Now I am nothing but smoke and blade.
So hear me, Carceron:
May your eyes forget sleep.
May every echo in these halls whisper my name.
May rust infect your machines.
May your guards lose their minds, one by one,
until they gnaw at each other’s throats in madness,
and call it devotion.
May the stars curse your lineage.
May every child you father grow up choking on your sins.
And when I rise
because I will rise
I will not come like a soldier.
I will come like disease.
I will peel the skin from your bones and braid it into the bars you made for me.
I will whisper Lyrax’s name into your ear
right before I crush your skull in my hands
and carve my freedom from the meat of your neck.
This is not threat
This is prophecy.
You locked me away.
But you left the door in my heart wide open.
And inside that room
is the scream of a goddess scorned.
(Encoded in the triptych pulseis a neural mimic array. When parsed through quantum empathy strata, it reveals a duplication of Amatrix’s cortical distress pattern, designed to hijack latent psychic relays in adjacent timelines. The signal does not seek attention- it infects it. Each observer becomes a carrier. Each whisper passed on by accident. It will never be sent form this prison)