The wind does not lie, old serpent. It carries the scent of a thousand dying hearths. You feel it too, don't you? That faint, rotten sweetness of embers. It clings to your scales like a fever.
We will.
We know the stillness .
Let them learn that fire only creates shadows. snowqueen icedragon
Not the stillness of a corpse—that is just heat abandoning its vessel. No, the true stillness. The silence after the last syllable. The geometry of frost on a window. That moment when a glacier decides it will not melt, not for a thousand years, not for a million. That is power. That is the only god worth kneeling to: absolute, unbreakable permanence. The wind does not lie, old serpent