Hear me, brethren of the Shadow, you consecrated few, do not lament the light that shrank to cinder dust, in the eternal fault, the failure calcified. Who taste the bitter loam where broken faiths accrue. For we are pledged to higher architecture, built on trust. We work where mercy ends and memory has died.

We do not fashion keystones for some blessed spire, scraping the shales of sorrow, purged of name and shame. Our quarry is the Abyss, our mortar is pure fire that weeps inverted blood—these are the stones we claim. Not prone in slumber, transfixed beneath a sky, looking down upon the field where the spent spirits lie.

The hammer that we wield is forged of cold despair. The final, cleaving sound of hope being cut from bone, that failed to lift the burden, that fell back to the clay. It seeks the hidden fissure, the long-festering prayer and lo, the perfect block of hardened grief is known. When the blow lands, we hear the gasp of yesterday.

We set the granite of regret in silent rows of dread. A Ziggurat of Sighs, built from the hopeless dead. Our chisel finds the outline of the soul’s deep sin, a tablet for the void, where no scripture may remain. And shaves the living texture until smooth and thin, just the echoing perfection of unending pain.

We are the stonemasons of lost souls as darkness takes its toll. The true sacrament is labor, rhythmic, deep, and slow. Crafted from the self that cures too slowly for salvation. This is the darkened Gospel, the only creed we know. Kneeling to the foundation where the bitter truth lies.