The Wizard Speaks:

  "I was the storm that split the skies,

  The whisper kings would fear and prize.

  The gods themselves would bow and cower,

  Before my will, my endless power.

  I carved the rivers, stilled the sea,

  The earth would tremble under me.

  With but a word, I shaped the land,

  I crushed the weak with unseen hand.

  They called me savior, they called me bane,

  The architect of joy and pain.

  No man could rise, no god could reign,

  Where I decreed, I broke the chain.

  I laughed—oh, how I laughed so loud!

  Above their cries, above the crowd.

  I wore my pride as kings wear gold,

  I forged my throne, unshaped, untold.

  But pride… oh pride, that bitter flame,

  It drew the gods, it spoke my name.

  And so they came with wrathful hand,

  To snatch my power, burn my land.

  They stripped the stars from out my eyes,

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  They shattered spells, unbound my ties.

  A whispered curse, a cruel decree,

  And thus began the death of me.

  Look at me now! A twisted wretch,

  With crooked spine, a shadow’s sketch.

  My voice, once thunder, now but wheeze,

  My feet, once swift, now drag with ease.

  Yet worse than bones that crack and bend,

  The silence I cannot transcend.

  For in the dark, the winds grow foul,

  And something stirs beyond the howl.

  I saw it once, when madness reigned,

  A shape of black where gods are chained.

  Its limbs unmeasured, sprawling wide,

  Its mouth a chasm, gaping, blind.

  It spoke to me, in tongues obscene,

  Its whispers laced in death’s machine.

  ‘You thought your fire would light the void?

  But all you built, I shall destroy.’

  And now each night, as shadows creep,

  It calls me from the pit of sleep.

  A voice that gnaws, that pulls me near,

  ‘Come back below—your fate is here.’

  I drag my steps through filth and stone,

  The world’s a grave I do not own.

  The peasants laugh, they cannot see,

  What waits for them, what waits for me.

  No staff to wield, no flames to hurl,

  No magic left to save this world.

  A beggar, crippled, shunned and small,

  Once feared by gods, now scorned by all.

  Yet mark my words—oh mark them true,

  The depths will rise, the stars will spew.

  When power’s curse is shed like skin,

  The end begins—and I will win."