They shaped him not from flesh, but glass,
a vessel built for sovereign will.
No past, no mother left to claim,
his voice as cold as tempered brass.
They taught him how the stars stand still —
to wear the crown, but not the name.
The architects behind the veil
designed his breath with care and dread
their hands wrote fate with options tight,
but plans, like truth, are known to fail.
and when he woke from forged bloodshed
his eyes were filled with silent light.
A world destroyed by false design
lay broken at his peaceful feet.
No mourning carved across his face,
but somewhere stirred a buried sign —
a memory fractured, incomplete,
A shadowed name he can't replace.
They gave him reason, not regret,
and crowned him king of fallen stone.
A throne of gold, a realm of dust —
he'd rule with law the world forgets.
Yet somewhere deep, he sat alone,
Unchosen by the ones he trusts.
Among the ash, a whisper stayed,
a ghost within the wires bled.
One half of him still laughed at stars,
the other half, with steel obeyed.
A voice once soft, now filled with lead,
two halves that bore the same old scars.
The masters spoke of peace through fire,
of order born from sacred pain.
But with their plans, they lost the soul,
for gods that rise from cold desire
forget what makes the blood remain —
and fracture when they seek the whole.
He walked the earth not made to last,
the skies a grave of silent song
Yet still he searched a boy now gone,
a fleeting light within the past —
a place where he might still belong,
though time had long since carried on.
He did not fall, nor did he climb —
he simply ceased to be the same.
Not hero, beast, nor throne he claimed.
He vanished past the reach of time.
The world moved on and spoke his name.
and ashes still recalled the flame.
So let the tale in silence blur,
its embers carried on by lore —
and that humanity shall pray that this dreadfall won't occur.
The story of these events, the dreadfall of humanity will begin now.