In shadows deep, among maddening echoes, the Order murmurs. Its phantoms dance in halls of forgotten arcana, weaving tapestries of blood and ink.
Limitless is the hunger, the unending grasp for knowledge hidden amidst the mournful cries of raven and owl, where pacts with the ethereal remit naught but despair.
The dusty book remains unopened, yet its charred grasp upon the understanding claws at tendrils of the mind, each page a monument of darkness, possibly past, perpetually present.
Ink cascades like winter rain upon the unlit scriptures, symbols crackle with unrest, waiting, whispering beyond the veil.
Whispered legends of the oblate sigil bind the unwilling seeker, an unseen thread drawing taut, tracing patterns of frost over lost parchment - alas, inversion of fate awaits under graven divination.
And so with trepidation, hold steady the chalice of penance; gilded candor fails to shield the unyielding truths carved in eldritch sighs of yore. Beneath the density of shivered starry canopies lies the epilogue of shadows.