Before the fall. Before the wound in the sky.
The Watchtowers held, silent, burning, eternal,
at the four corners of everything.
The geometry holds. The geometry held.
Then, between one breath and the next, it didn't.
You were here once. You called it home.
You won't be here for much longer.
Something below recognizes you. Step in.
First among the seventy-two. President of Hell,
commander of sixty-six legions.
He does not appear. He reveals.
What you see now, you cannot unsee.
One of the nine Kings of Hell. He came from the west,
riding a camel, preceded by his own sound.
A cacophony that silenced everything else.
Master of arts, sciences, and the secret architecture of thought.
What you hear descending was his idea.
Two hundred legions follow him into the pit.
They do not march. They do not mourn.
They move to the sound, and now, so do you.
Duke of thirty legions. He speaks in three voices simultaneously.
None of them lie.
He who moves the dead from their graves,
pours riches into willing hands,
and gifts those who summon him with eloquence they did not earn.
The altar receives.
