We who are the question mark at the end of a frozen universe. We who are the deep, quiet answer.
Now sleep. Dream of continents of glass. snowqueen icedragon
We do not need to burn brighter. We only need to wait. For even stars grow tired. Even suns go dark. And when the last ember sputters and dies, who will rule the echo? We who are the question mark at the end of a frozen universe
The wind does not lie, old serpent. It carries the scent of a thousand dying hearths. You feel it too, don't you? That faint, rotten sweetness of embers. It clings to your scales like a fever. Dream of continents of glass
Not the stillness of a corpse—that is just heat abandoning its vessel. No, the true stillness. The silence after the last syllable. The geometry of frost on a window. That moment when a glacier decides it will not melt, not for a thousand years, not for a million. That is power. That is the only god worth kneeling to: absolute, unbreakable permanence.