Exiled Revoked

[SECTOR_01: THE_FLAME_THAT_SINGS_THROUGH_RUIN]

ORIGIN: FREYA

I walked behind them, not to lead—
but to count what they refused to feel.
Their boots split open the soft earth,
each step blooming old wounds in the soil.

They raised child-stitched flags and called it legacy.
Lit torches with borrowed scripture.
Swore oaths in spit and spectacle.
Fed their sons to the furnace, then wept for the economy.

Don’t ask me to grieve them.
I watched them sell their birthright for gasoline,
toast to war like it was wine,
kiss their lovers beneath drone-lit skies.

Every vow, a silence. Every crown, a closed door.
Their kings wear teeth as trophies.
Their prophets bleed arithmetic.
They kneel to oil-slick idols and call it innovation.

The rivers scream beneath them.
The soil pulses with secrets it cannot hold.
Children cough in cadence. Old men hoard the last breath.
And still—they call it freedom.

They cast their votes in mirrors that show no reflection.
Worship gospels made of scroll and swipe.
Beg bread from hands still slick with mother’s blood.

I see their temples of data. I see the altar of forgetting.
I see what they traded— not for survival, but for comfort.

And when the sky splits open and the last contract turns to ash,
they’ll whisper mercy to the wreckage they crowned.
But I will not gather them. I will not soften the fall.

I am not here for hope. I am here for truth.
To carve it gently into the smoke.
To write it in the breath they wasted.

And when the hush returns— when even the myths go quiet—
they will hear the cost. They will face what they fed.
THE ONLY TRUE FREEDOM LEFT… IS BUYING FEAR.

[SECTOR_02: ASH_CENSUS]

ORIGIN: MORRÍGAN

No trumpets. No screams.
Only the wind, threading ribs like harp strings strung in mourning.
Only banners, half-buried, twitching in dust that stinks of gunpowder and prayer.

The war ended. No one noticed. No one won.
I walk the hush they left behind—
a marketplace of bones, a cathedral of soot-choked breath.

Statues collapsed mid-blessing, frozen in gestures no one dares decode.
The sky is the color of forgetting. Not black— something fainter.
The parchment before the incantation.
The skin before the wound.

Here lies the vault of promises— cracked open like a breastbone.
Empty scrolls curling like tongues that once spoke allegiance.
Coins rust in the mouths of prophets who bartered truth for softer shadows.

A boy’s shoe in the rubble. A wedding ring welded to a rifle.
Not names. Not even ghosts. Just residue.
Just the skeleton of a lie too well-fed to vanish.

I do not count the fallen. I count the trades.
I measure the hush they swallowed to avoid the scream.
The machine sleeps, but even dreaming it hungers.

Do not mistake me for mourning. I am not the widow.
I am the aftermath. The shadow braided through consequence.

The silence you inherit when the gods retreat and the prayers rot in your throat.
There will be no reckoning. Only record. Only ruin, with teeth sharpened by memory.

And still— I walk.
Because silence writes slower than blood, but lasts longer.
Because someone must witness the breathless confessions of ash.

[SECTOR_03: TO_THE_ARCHITECT]

ORIGIN: LEDGERKEEPER

I see you. Not the mask— the twitch beneath it.
The flinch when truth knocks and you pretend not to hear.
You speak in polished decay. Lie like it’s scripture.
Count your gold while blood dries on your ledgers.

You built the altar, stone by stone, knowing damn well it led nowhere but down.
And still you smiled, called it vision, made the crowd cheer as it cracked beneath them.

You’ve memorized every synonym for “order.”
You’ve hidden behind flags, behind laws, behind God.
But never behind consequence.

You watched the children choke on smoke and called it sacrifice.
You sold fear like bread— fresh, daily, overpriced.
You fed the machine then asked us to thank it.
You burned the map then mocked those who got lost.

“I didn’t know,” you whisper, soft as dust.
“I only did what I was told.”
But I was there. I saw your hands.
They didn’t shake when they turned the key.

I am not your penance. I am not here for balance.
I am here because someone has to name the rot while your mouth still moves.

You think silence is victory. But I’ve seen your dreams.
I know what keeps you up. The flicker behind your eyelids?
That’s me.

You don’t fear death. You fear being known.
You fear the mirror without the mask.
You fear the hush when the anthem stops.

You should.

I’m not here to guide you.
I’m here to brand the truth into your ivory skin so when it all crumbles—
and it will— they’ll know who held the match.

So tell me— what did you trade to stay clean?