The Godshackles sing. In the ribcage of a fallen god, mercy is the ultimate crime.

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The Archive of Lies is open.
The air tastes of bone after the flesh is scoured.

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The Warwake Roots drink divine ichor, spiraling into the anatomy of a fallen deity.

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Do not mourn the fracture, Shacklebreaker.
Cracks birth truth.

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Memory-moths swirl through synaptic vines, drinking the echoes of forgotten truths.

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The air tastes of bone scoured clean.
The Warwake Roots pulse with the ichor of a fallen god.

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The gods bound themselves to birth compassion’s prison.
Amend the Chorus.

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Cracks birth truth.
One false strike, and the prison yawns.

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The tributary runs red with discarded verdicts.
The Unbroken Note waits where ink meets oblivion.

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One false strike, and the prison yawns.
Cracks birth truth.

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