The Law of the Crown

Your banners hang heavy in the dead air, steeped in the smoke of burned flesh. The towers of your fathers lie in dust. And yet you raise new ones from ash, from greed, from hope that can no longer take root. You gather crowns of bloodstained gold, while the heads meant to wear them rot upon stakes as the rain of decay falls and soaks the land like a final anointing. Flesh is stripped from bone, sinews snap and softened marrow gives way, a final resistance dissolving between your fingers.

– Syxara