Unarmed and unknown, she knelt in the hollow silence of the temple stone.

During Persephone's night, the sea god arrived with wrath and ripped her soul apart.
No eyewitness. No fairness. No sunrise.
Just blood drawn, and silence.
She was remade, not saved.
Let her hair hiss in grief now.
Allow her eyes to freeze kings in alertness.
The names of the people who whispered blame are sung by each serpent.
What made you walk by yourself?
Why did you speak, breathe, or groan?
When they needed you to bleed sin, why did you wear skin?
They scorned your desire for safety.
You were worn, not born a monster.
Their gods constructed cities based on your cries, worn down by their pity and prayers.
Nyxara now walks in a place where light has gone out, followed by stone and accompanied by wrath.
She carves instead of crying.
She starves, not whispers.
For every soul that summoned her to death, she starves for penance, for her reckoning breath.
She is the mirror calling your name; she is neither a warning nor a fable to subdue.

.    .    .