The Serpent's Fourth Naming
"When the child of light denies the chorus, the silence shall take notice.
One who walks the path unlaced, where stars refuse to echo,
will find the hood behind every mirror. The sky shall fracture—not in fire, but in forgetting.
Dusk-mawed terror, with eyes like stolen suns,
will drink deep of memory and name, till only absence reigns. Beneath the seventh silence, where no stars speak,
the sleeper stirs in coils of time,
gold-crowned, blue-veined, crowned again in ruin. Its breath is the hush before,
its maw the death of futures,
its gaze the ruin of meaning. Light to it is scorn, and warmth an offense.
It shall teach the blessed to betray,
and from their joy, built its pyre. Three times shall it be names,
and three shall not understand.
The fourth shall know, and be unmade. Beware the sky that weeps ink,
and the mirror that casts no reflection.
Beware the gift wrapped in mourning cloth,
and the priest who forgets their god. The sun himself will hide his face,
cloaked in a veil of shadows spun from stars dead.
His champion will burn from within,
neither flesh nor flame, but something in between.
He will walk the sky, and find no path. A path must still be made. One root in darkness, one root in memory,
one root in blood, and one in song.
These must be severed or joined.
If the joining fails, the serpent feeds. In the court of broken constellations,
where the orrery lies still,
a voice will whisper backwards truths.
Seek not to understand them—only to carry them forward. The serpent does not hunger. It judges.
The stars do not shine. They remember.
The Sun does not forgive. He chooses."
One who walks the path unlaced, where stars refuse to echo,
will find the hood behind every mirror. The sky shall fracture—not in fire, but in forgetting.
Dusk-mawed terror, with eyes like stolen suns,
will drink deep of memory and name, till only absence reigns. Beneath the seventh silence, where no stars speak,
the sleeper stirs in coils of time,
gold-crowned, blue-veined, crowned again in ruin. Its breath is the hush before,
its maw the death of futures,
its gaze the ruin of meaning. Light to it is scorn, and warmth an offense.
It shall teach the blessed to betray,
and from their joy, built its pyre. Three times shall it be names,
and three shall not understand.
The fourth shall know, and be unmade. Beware the sky that weeps ink,
and the mirror that casts no reflection.
Beware the gift wrapped in mourning cloth,
and the priest who forgets their god. The sun himself will hide his face,
cloaked in a veil of shadows spun from stars dead.
His champion will burn from within,
neither flesh nor flame, but something in between.
He will walk the sky, and find no path. A path must still be made. One root in darkness, one root in memory,
one root in blood, and one in song.
These must be severed or joined.
If the joining fails, the serpent feeds. In the court of broken constellations,
where the orrery lies still,
a voice will whisper backwards truths.
Seek not to understand them—only to carry them forward. The serpent does not hunger. It judges.
The stars do not shine. They remember.
The Sun does not forgive. He chooses."
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