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A man in armor and red hooded cloak faces down a balrog guarding a planar gate made of onyx stone. The man carries a magic staff made crystalline ice and shield with a dark blue sigil. The moment before the initial clash. Well lit by full moon. Master work, mixed media, pencil realism, unity 3d, wide spectrum filters, solar winds, oil paint, ink, deep color saturation in gradient.
Hear now the cold breath
that coils along my spine
as I stride toward the battle
inscribed for me in the elder dust.
My pace is measured.
Let the scatter-tongued clutch their dispersions.
Time is shorn—
a torrent for the masses,
gorging on doubt
from the dais of hollow crowns.
Thus it was seeded.
Thus it returns.
Beyond the threshold, fear seeks the soul,
yet I deny it claim.
Let it fall.
For death’s door is both escape and return,
the hinge upon which cycles turn.
My strikes move without burden—
force turns a fulcrum splitting their edge,
as destiny’s flight opens another land
for another life.
The trance of misdirection
lets the hook land clean.
They are undone
before the gleam of certainty betrays them—
sleepwalking with a smile
into their tomb-carved form.
The rhythm will not claim them.
No posture they summon will speak.
They grasp the mire of brokered futures,
and comfort-masks hide them kissing their chains.
Like moths to the furnace,
they circle their extinguishing.
No need to scry the Tablet of Destinies—
Lotan’s coils declared this.
Leviathan and Behemoth to be razed once more.
By these hands the ripples are sown
into the temporal field,
and all potentials fold
when fate is seized.
The pyre summons.
I walk to it sealing this debt.
The ledger waits no longer.
So it is written.
Aaron Baker
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