

Which Divine Light Calls Your Soul?


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I was born after the sun returned. I know only this world.

I came from before. I remember what was lost.

Are you a child of the new world, or a memory of the old?

End its pain quickly, then skin it—its pelt is worth a fortune.

Sit quietly beside it until it passes. Life ends for all things.

Ease its suffering and tend its wounds with care

The Beast in the Thicket

Wait and watch. You’ll decide based on what you see.

Turn away—or wait to pick through what remains.

Rush to help whoever you can, ready for danger.

The Fire on the Horizon

Walk away—you need neither the item nor the trouble.

Pay the full price, even if it hurts your purse.

The Merchant's Bargain

Keep your distance. It’s not your affair.

Call for calm and demand evidence before punishment.

The Accused

Evil

To a golden stage where I am always adored—no matter who must fall to keep the spotlight.

To the roar inside my chest when flesh meets flame, and victory tastes like iron.

To the ink-black depths where truth festers, and the knowing never stop screaming.

To the moment the breath leaves their throat—still, silent, divine.

To the blood-wet path beneath my feet, where chains become crowns and agony sings of worth.

To the sound of begging behind stained-glass windows, where mercy has no throne and justice wears iron.

To the bruised sky where the moon never wanes, and sorrow lingers like perfume on broken things.

To the scent of blood in tall grass, where the herd runs blind and I do not.

In silence, where does your mind drift?

To defend is to destroy. That is the wild truth.

My law is the final breath, stolen or surrendered—it matters not.

Pain, wrapped in silk. The law is simple: if they ache for me, they are mine.

Glory, no matter how many bones it is built on.

Desire. The world turns for those who know how to be wanted."

Curiosity that cuts. I will know what others dare not ask.

What law governs your soul?

They envy that I still grow where they rot.

I walk untouched through the moments that break them. 

My lips — the promise of pain that begs to be tasted.

I become what they ache for, then leave them empty.

My certainty — the kind that silences lesser wills.

They envy that I don’t ask permission to burn.