ㅤㅤ
ㅤㅤ“CAELURETH ALCYONIADES.” 1506.
ㅤㅤI ache for the moments that
ㅤㅤnever happened, yet feel like
ㅤㅤthey should have been ours.
ㅤㅤ

ㅤㅤ
In the beginning they promised me salvation if only I learned to build. So I raised sanctuaries out of flesh, carved towers from borrowed names, as CAELURETH ALCYONIADES I flew by, and placed upon the altar the visage of Phainon—a mask to be worshiped, or perhaps to be blamed. But every temple I erected fell to the same hands that had once shaped it, and every scripture of my being was redrafted until the parchment itself wept with contradictions.

Within the wreckage, Anaxagoras, Klein Moretti, Baek Cirrus, Lin Qiye & Wei Wuxian linger like fevered apostles. One bears a torch as if to illuminate, another strikes the pillars into dust, another kneels to gods who have long turned their faces away. They are martyrs and betrayers, saints in their silence, executioners in their breath. Their gospel is not salvation but collapse, and I remain the cathedral they could not complete—neither holy nor profane, trembling in the rift between devotion and desecration.

What remains is less a testament than a hymn unraveling at its last note. A city of dust clinging to its faint ember, a psalm still echoing though the choir has abandoned the nave. I endure as ruin and as relic, consecrated in blasphemy, condemned by faith that gnaws at its own foundation.

Step closer, if you will. Do not expect symmetry or sanctity. Seek instead the fissures where stray light bleeds through, the half-erased prayers scratched into collapsing stone. There, among the fractures, is where I dwell. There lies the only truth I can offer you: a ruin that refuses to be silenced, a devotion that survives only because it is broken.
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ㅤㅤ“CYRIELLA EVALINE.” 1707.
ㅤㅤI ache for the moments that
ㅤㅤnever happened, yet feel like
ㅤㅤthey should have been ours.
ㅤㅤ

ㅤㅤ
In the beginning they promised me salvation if only I learned to build. So I raised sanctuaries out of flesh, carved towers from borrowed names, as CYRIELLA EVALINE I flew by, and placed upon the altar the visage of Cyrene—a mask to be worshiped, or perhaps to be blamed. But every temple I erected fell to the same hands that had once shaped it, and every scripture of my being was redrafted until the parchment itself wept with contradictions.

Within the wreckage, Navia, Riyo Reaper and Ophelia Lizen linger like fevered apostles. One bears a torch as if to illuminate, another strikes the pillars into dust, another kneels to gods who have long turned their faces away. They are martyrs and betrayers, saints in their silence, executioners in their breath. Their gospel is not salvation but collapse, and I remain the cathedral they could not complete—neither holy nor profane, trembling in the rift between devotion and desecration.

What remains is less a testament than a hymn unraveling at its last note. A city of dust clinging to its faint ember, a psalm still echoing though the choir has abandoned the nave. I endure as ruin and as relic, consecrated in blasphemy, condemned by faith that gnaws at its own foundation.

Step closer, if you will. Do not expect symmetry or sanctity. Seek instead the fissures where stray light bleeds through, the half-erased prayers scratched into collapsing stone. There, among the fractures, is where I dwell. There lies the only truth I can offer you: a ruin that refuses to be silenced, a devotion that survives only because it is broken.
ㅤㅤ

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ㅤㅤ“ILYA LIKHAREV.” 1379.
ㅤㅤI ache for the moments that
ㅤㅤnever happened, yet feel like
ㅤㅤthey should have been ours.
ㅤㅤ

ㅤㅤ
In the beginning they promised me salvation if only I learned to build. So I raised sanctuaries out of flesh, carved towers from borrowed names, as ILYA LIKHAREV I flew by, and placed upon the altar the visage of Yomi—a mask to be worshiped, or perhaps to be blamed. But every temple I erected fell to the same hands that had once shaped it, and every scripture of my being was redrafted until the parchment itself wept with contradictions.

Within the wreckage, Sylus, Blade, Wriothesley and Hirofumi Yoshida linger like fevered apostles. One bears a torch as if to illuminate, another strikes the pillars into dust, another kneels to gods who have long turned their faces away. They are martyrs and betrayers, saints in their silence, executioners in their breath. Their gospel is not salvation but collapse, and I remain the cathedral they could not complete—neither holy nor profane, trembling in the rift between devotion and desecration.

What remains is less a testament than a hymn unraveling at its last note. A city of dust clinging to its faint ember, a psalm still echoing though the choir has abandoned the nave. I endure as ruin and as relic, consecrated in blasphemy, condemned by faith that gnaws at its own foundation.

Step closer, if you will. Do not expect symmetry or sanctity. Seek instead the fissures where stray light bleeds through, the half-erased prayers scratched into collapsing stone. There, among the fractures, is where I dwell. There lies the only truth I can offer you: a ruin that refuses to be silenced, a devotion that survives only because it is broken.
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ㅤㅤ“JOHAEL FOHNHEIL.” 2011.
ㅤㅤI ache for the moments that
ㅤㅤnever happened, yet feel like
ㅤㅤthey should have been ours.
ㅤㅤ

ㅤㅤ
In the beginning they promised me salvation if only I learned to build. So I raised sanctuaries out of flesh, carved towers from borrowed names, as JOHAEL FOHNHEIL I flew by, and placed upon the altar the visage of Jingyuan—a mask to be worshiped, or perhaps to be blamed. But every temple I erected fell to the same hands that had once shaped it, and every scripture of my being was redrafted until the parchment itself wept with contradictions.

Within the wreckage, Suguru Geto, Zhongli, Jakurai Jinguji, Choi San. linger like fevered apostles. One bears a torch as if to illuminate, another strikes the pillars into dust, another kneels to gods who have long turned their faces away. They are martyrs and betrayers, saints in their silence, executioners in their breath. Their gospel is not salvation but collapse, and I remain the cathedral they could not complete—neither holy nor profane, trembling in the rift between devotion and desecration.

What remains is less a testament than a hymn unraveling at its last note. A city of dust clinging to its faint ember, a psalm still echoing though the choir has abandoned the nave. I endure as ruin and as relic, consecrated in blasphemy, condemned by faith that gnaws at its own foundation.

Step closer, if you will. Do not expect symmetry or sanctity. Seek instead the fissures where stray light bleeds through, the half-erased prayers scratched into collapsing stone. There, among the fractures, is where I dwell. There lies the only truth I can offer you: a ruin that refuses to be silenced, a devotion that survives only because it is broken.
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ㅤㅤ“KAIZE HAERTLEY.” 2312.
ㅤㅤI ache for the moments that
ㅤㅤnever happened, yet feel like
ㅤㅤthey should have been ours.
ㅤㅤ

ㅤㅤ
In the beginning they promised me salvation if only I learned to build. So I raised sanctuaries out of flesh, carved towers from borrowed names, as KAIZE HAERTLEY I flew by, and placed upon the altar the visage of Baek Cirrus—a mask to be worshiped, or perhaps to be blamed. But every temple I erected fell to the same hands that had once shaped it, and every scripture of my being was redrafted until the parchment itself wept with contradictions.

Within the wreckage, Yu Hamin, Ivan, Okkotsu Yuuta and Mydeimos, Juhoon. linger like fevered apostles. One bears a torch as if to illuminate, another strikes the pillars into dust, another kneels to gods who have long turned their faces away. They are martyrs and betrayers, saints in their silence, executioners in their breath. Their gospel is not salvation but collapse, and I remain the cathedral they could not complete—neither holy nor profane, trembling in the rift between devotion and desecration.

What remains is less a testament than a hymn unraveling at its last note. A city of dust clinging to its faint ember, a psalm still echoing though the choir has abandoned the nave. I endure as ruin and as relic, consecrated in blasphemy, condemned by faith that gnaws at its own foundation.

Step closer, if you will. Do not expect symmetry or sanctity. Seek instead the fissures where stray light bleeds through, the half-erased prayers scratched into collapsing stone. There, among the fractures, is where I dwell. There lies the only truth I can offer you: a ruin that refuses to be silenced, a devotion that survives only because it is broken.
ㅤㅤ

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ㅤㅤ“LULHAÏN ASHR.” 3112.
ㅤㅤI ache for the moments that
ㅤㅤnever happened, yet feel like
ㅤㅤthey should have been ours.
ㅤㅤ

ㅤㅤ
In the beginning they promised me salvation if only I learned to build. So I raised sanctuaries out of flesh, carved towers from borrowed names, as LULHAÏN ASHR I flew by, and placed upon the altar the visage of Leewon Jeong—a mask to be worshiped, or perhaps to be blamed. But every temple I erected fell to the same hands that had once shaped it, and every scripture of my being was redrafted until the parchment itself wept with contradictions.

Within the wreckage, Kyoya Honda, Fumiya Takahashi, Karlyle Frost, Kyryll Chudomirovics Flins, Phainon (Khaslana) and Park Wonbin linger like fevered apostles. One bears a torch as if to illuminate, another strikes the pillars into dust, another kneels to gods who have long turned their faces away. They are martyrs and betrayers, saints in their silence, executioners in their breath. Their gospel is not salvation but collapse, and I remain the cathedral they could not complete—neither holy nor profane, trembling in the rift between devotion and desecration.

What remains is less a testament than a hymn unraveling at its last note. A city of dust clinging to its faint ember, a psalm still echoing though the choir has abandoned the nave. I endure as ruin and as relic, consecrated in blasphemy, condemned by faith that gnaws at its own foundation.

Step closer, if you will. Do not expect symmetry or sanctity. Seek instead the fissures where stray light bleeds through, the half-erased prayers scratched into collapsing stone. There, among the fractures, is where I dwell. There lies the only truth I can offer you: a ruin that refuses to be silenced, a devotion that survives only because it is broken.
ㅤㅤ

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ㅤㅤ“MICHAEL RHAESTON.” 1202.
ㅤㅤI ache for the moments that
ㅤㅤnever happened, yet feel like
ㅤㅤthey should have been ours.
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