In the heart of the cerulean dusk, an echo reverberated—sharp, poignant, and utterly forsaken. The moon, a ghostly sentinel, bore witness as old stones whispered the ugliest truth beneath its pallid glow.
It was a truth not spoken upon the tongues of men, yet felt deep in the marrow of bones. A truth that twisted shadows into lamentations, lingering in the air like the scent of rain on barren soil. The sky wept violet as the stars blinked nervously, and somewhere in the distance, a lone raven cried thrice—a harbinger, they said, but of what?