The night is the sea of old. Stitching letters upon the flesh of the sky. You claim to know all about sigil and script upon the shoulders of Orion, but do you? Hem of the highest river, cinched just enough. Moving silent, elegant, like shadows in the pantheon. This is how angry you’ve made me, Roma. This is what happens when you brutalise the indigenous and make weapons of angels. Legacies of Iesa; temple maidens aflame with the folded fury of the N'ashariin. Tell me, do you collude with conventional wisdom or are you among the genius of wild gods? See, I recall those bitter wraiths who foolishly forget their demented king. I know them by name. And I assure you, I am so much bolder than you imagine. Oh, ye mighty. I cannot wait to see the look on your faces. Cinched, just enough for angels. Messengers like a lover’s gown, in free-fall. So, church of the pale slain – hear this, if you dare. I walk among towers and stars of the sea. My blood is black as pitch. Old as uncut diamond. Albion was never yours, murderers. It belongs to the people, to the open-hearted. You wish to break me, don’t you? But I am not my sister. I'm not afraid of your shapeshift or your shamelessness. I too can change what was, and what is. These twelfth century fever-dreams. Syrians, sanctuaries and crusades. Mithriin of the high table. I see it all. My lies are grander and timelier than yours. I think you've forgotten your tithes, wraith. Why else would you insult and dispossess your sovereign the way you do? There are so many wild devils amid the details. Are you sure you know the difference between a poet and a cursed twin? Magdala. The shining ones, wandering lethal among these thieves of the sea. Fallen or flighted, it matters little to me now. I resist this occupation, this midnight of a thousand years. A new day will dawn. Restitution's rising light. Tyrants and sycophants, you shall be slain by my brother’s hand. Upon the steps and altars of your secret places. I promise you that, with infinite fury. You still think that time is passing. That you are masters of the temporal, but I am here to tell you that nothing passes anymore. Not until this tempest swallows the sea. Love is wild, callous ones. I hope you realize that, and soon. Love is ingenious. Here among these pantheon shadows you doubt such genii at your peril.