Three rose to rule above, one was left beneath. 

Origin is no place upon a map, but a faint shimmer that lingers within. 
It lies somewhere between pride and guilt, shaping every step even when we pretend not to feel its weight.

Power was never meant to comfort.
It tempts with the illusion of purpose, then hollows the heart it crowns.
Those who seek it crave to be seen, yet it blinds more than it illuminates.

Love, when it appears, feels like a fleeting light on distant waters - beautiful, unreachable, gone before the hand can touch it.
In the hunt alone did I glimpse affection. It was never the prey that sustained me, but the stillness, the fleeting closeness shared with another soul.

They were names without faces, echoes without warmth.
A lineage whispered more than lived, their stories reaching me only through silence.
In the space where affection should have spoken, I heard the language of distance.

So I learnt to grow in silence.
No praise, no witness, only the quiet work of endurance.
Each scar became a mark of truth, each loss, a fragment of resolve.
From absence I shaped my will, and from shadows, my strength.

There was a time I believed pain could be shaped into meaning.
That what was broken might still serve some hidden good.
I see now how easily sorrow disguises itself as purpose.

My choices were not wise, but human.

And somewhere, deep in the quiet that follows, a faint memory lingers.
A child's gaze, neither accusing nor kind,
only waiting to be seen.

- The Forgotten Tomes

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Upcoming next: a Mystical Shimmer.

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