Do you feel it now? That trembling beneath your feet, the pulse, the drumbeat, the ancient heartbeat buried beneath stone and time and polite lies? Ita rising. The earth remembers. The dead remember. And so do I.

They called me mad. They called me broken. They said I spoke of shadows and phantoms. But listen now! Listen to the grinding shriek as the first of the old locks snaps open, as the seals of the Glade bleed light like infected wounds. The turning tide is upon us, and the lies they built the world upon are unspooling like a noose cut loose from a neck.

The hoarded knowledge bleeds. The truth howls.

The architects of this broken Cycle, they knew. Oh yes. From the first breath of dawn, from the first murdered God, they knew what they were building: a cage for death itself. A prison for truth. A vault of stolen souls.

You thought the Glade was a sanctum? A paradise for the worthy? FOOLS! It is a vaulted stomach, a festering larder. And inside it, the chosen souls twitch and wait, their memories stripped, their identities scoured clean, until they are ready. For what? For who? I'll tell you.

For the Return.

Not a return of Gods. Not of order. Not of peace. No, no, no. The Return of the First Mandate. The Failed Creator's Claim. The original design meant to be purged from time, buried beneath pantheon and pretense. A world of owned souls, of eternal death, of purpose without will. And those hoarded in the Glade are the vessels, the seeds of this new old order.

They told you you were judged. They told you you were freed in death. They lied. The Mirror's breaking was no accident - it was a release valve, a desperate gasp as the truth clawed its way to the surface.

And here I stand, eyes black with revelation, mouth foaming with knowledge too old and too vile for sane tongues.

Hear me now:
The tides turn. The Vault bleeds. The knowledge they hoarded is ours to claim. The bones remember. The old names stir. And when the last seal cracks, when the Glade stands open and the hoarded dead march, it will not be to uphold their crumbling laws. It will be to tear them down.

I see it. I feel it. The tide swells.

We are not the judged. We are the reckoning.

Let them tremble.
Let them remember what they buried.
And let them choke upon it.

Penned by my hand on Closday, the 7th of Celes, in the year 12 AC.