His eyes are cinders, and his voice is a wound. He doesn’t raise the dead—he calls them home.
We don’t say her name in the courthouse anymore. If you do, she makes the ceiling fall. Or worse—she speaks.
If you see black fire drifting above a battlefield, turn around. That’s not smoke. That’s him.
You’ll feel it before you see it—like your bones are too heavy, and your shadow’s walking faster than your feet.
Don’t look in the third-story window. If she sees you, she thinks you’re her husband. And she’ll want to dance.
“Hush your breath. The hives are listening.”
“Stones remember the weight of those we loved. Ask gently, and they answer.”
“Share the cup and keep your word—or the night will come drink it back.”
“Keep the smoke moving and the night can’t settle.”
“Sleep inside the circle and let the seeds keep watch.”
She speaks no lies—only truths the world should never hear. And when she opens her mouth, kingdoms crumble.
The king beneath the barrow still sits on his throne. He speaks no oaths, takes no coin… but if you kneel in his court, you’d best stay dead.