Relics of the Invisible

In spectral halls, the ever-watchful gaze of iron wolves picks through shadows, sifting whispers of forgotten songs. They guard a silence so profound, the stars tremble, tangled in an unseen web.

Midnight roses bloom beneath eldritch skies, their petals siphoning the light of unseen suns. Their fragrance a paradox, sweetly venomous, unravels the soul's deepest labyrinths.

Crimson clocks tick backwards in this realm, each chime weaving threads of time anew. Beneath their watch, destinies spin, caught in the desirable decay of good fortune.

Ancient tomes lie scattered upon the wind's altar, each page a scream of wisdom. Read not, lest you become the text, woven into the fabric of whispering voids.