That curve of his back - half-scar, half-sin - fit into me like we were drawn by the same violent hand.
Even here, in this tomb, I can still smell him.
Smoke. Salt. That iron scent from the crease of his neck after battle, when his pulse still thundered,
when his breath stuttered out with mine.
Lyrax.
They say your name like a curse.
I say it like a wound.
No one knew him. Not like I did.
They feared his wrath, but I knew his grace -
the way his fingers shook the first time he touched me,
not from hesitation, but restraint.
He could have taken me. Devoured me.
Instead he asked.
He asked.
And when I said yes
the universe tilted.
There was no tenderness. There was fire.
We kissed like we meant to end each other.
He bit my lip until it bled and said, “Now we match.”
Gods, I would die to taste that again.
His manhood was more than flesh.
It was defiance. A weapon he wielded only for me.
He fucked like he was avenging something.
Like every thrust was a declaration that he was still alive.
And when we moved together
there were no gods.
Only us.
I remember the way his jaw clenched when he came.
That growl, low and guttural. Mine.
They took that from me.
They broke him.
They laid him out cold and unmade
his chest caved, his lips slack, his fire gone.
I held his body and screamed with my soul.
But no one heard.
So now I whisper into stone.
I whisper into dark.
I whisper into myself:
Lyrax, my chaos, my crown.
You were the only thing real in this cursed cosmos.
They took you from me.
And I will turn the stars to ash in your name.
(Layered in the echo cycle is a ruin-loop vector. This pattern seeds itself into chronotemporal blindspots - zones where time fractures around sorrow. Once embedded, it reverses causality directionality in microbursts, triggering brief, untraceable memory leaks in high-security structures. It will never leave this prison)