The Archon’s Gambit.
I. The Proem of Pulsing Prisms
The glaucous void, a vacuous, vast expanse,
Where entropy’s cold finger etches lines,
In choir of stars that join the cosmic dance,
To wither where the pale sun never shines.
The Archon wakes from deep, lethargic sleep,
With eyes of obsidian and tongue of flame,
To harvest secrets that the shadows keep,
And give the nameless ghosts a crystal name.
Beneath the coruscating, cobalt sky,
Where nebulae in violet gasps expire,
The titan watches as the aeons die,
Within the furnace of his own desire.
O, hear the clangour of the iron bell,
The story that the dying systems tell.
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