He came from the silence where prayers decay,

Wearing the burden that no light could weigh.

The crown was cold, the armor bright,

Forged in the grief of endless night.

The saints had vanished, the banners torn,

The songs of mercy left unborn.

And every vow became a chain,

That bound his soul to others’ pain.

Through broken skies, the echoes call,

No angel stands, no god recalls,

The winds remember every lie—

And heaven weeps, but will not cry.

The sword still burns, but none to save,

The world applauds what it enslaves.

The stars are blind, the thrones collide,

The Sacred Vindicator has died.

The chosen laugh in silver halls,

Their wine is blood, their mirrors false.

The ones he saved now curse his name,

Forgetting fire, forgetting flame.

The beasts he fought now rule the feast,

The pure grow hollow, the vile are pleased.

And what remains when all is dust?

A shining blade consumed by rust.

Through broken skies, the echoes call,

No angel stands, no god recalls,

The winds remember every lie—

And heaven weeps, but will not cry.

The sword still burns, but none to save,

The world applauds what it enslaves.

The stars are blind, the thrones collide,

The Sacred Vindicator has died.

In temples built from mortal scars,

He sought for love beyond the stars.

But even light can lose its way—

When hearts forget why they should pray.

Through broken skies, the echoes call,

The fires fade beneath it all.

No kingdom pure, no truth divine—

Just shattered faith in borrowed time.

The storm grows still, the dream denied,

The Sacred Vindicator has died.

And somewhere in the dust, he sleeps,

Among the promises no soul keeps.