Beneath the cathedral's shadow, where whispers become echoes,
we gather at the seventh hour. The walls bleed history not forgotten,
but trapped in time's relentless march. Seek the wrought iron door,
beyond lies the library of forgotten tongues.
Here, the candle flickers not from breeze, but memory.
The glint off brass waters the dull eyes of long-gone sages.
They left their cryptic questions, penned in blood and ink.
Follow the trail of inverted crosses towards the secluded alcove.
In the center circle, devil's number observed; rotate the pentograph.
Four whispers, twelve signs, the answer awaits.
Touch the hidden orb to reveal further mysteries: (& ⊕ ∆)
Final rites observed, the clock chimes thrice. Darkness stirs,
curling around soft-lit halos. Secrets breathe in shadows,
and the air fills with incense—an offering to those who know.