When the cosmic dusk drapes over the astral mirror, the stars weep with an inevitable madness. Iciest shadows unravel their tales, weaving through the nebula's ancient breath.
Amidst this chaotic cadence, the chronicles of Olympus IV surface — its citadels, once proud, now mourn beneath the whispers of silken serpents. On cobbled ruins, echoes of forgotten hymns linger, held captive by time's relentless embrace.
Somewhere in that abyss, the skeptics find solace beneath the crumbling pews of the last cathedral, where marble angels shed petrified tears. The nocturnal choir hums hymns in antiquated tongues, the air thick with leftover prophecy and fleeting destiny.
And as the churning cosmos unfurls its grotesque tapestry, entities without name writhe across the folds, their beckoning fingers seeking passage among us hapless souls tethered to twilight fate.