The Constellations Above, the Cycle Below

  A Record of the Old Sky

  When the multiverse dreams nightmares into being, it crafts them in threes.

  In the darkest dome of sky, before time wound its first loop, three constellations were born from the heart of cruelty itself. They shine even now, older than gods, older than matter. The stars we name them

  by are not their source, but their scar.

  The Two Headed Dragon — Füren, The Cataclysm and Andvaria, The Absence of Health and Fortune

  The Flame that Devours the House/The Rotted Mind Leading The Leper's Body

  Fire with no hearth. Rage with no justice. The Dragon burns because it is, and leaves no reason standing. Beneath its wings, cities become craters, and love becomes ash. Cancers spring internal and lady luck turns a blind eye.

  The Wolf — Fenrir, Hunger of All-Consuming Life

  The Maw that Does Not Chew, Only Swallows

  It grows. It takes. It loves only the next thing to devour. It is life unmoored from humility. The Wolf does not hate. It does not need to. Its appetite is proof enough of its truth.

  The Crab — Un’kuthuku, Salt and Shell

  The Quiet Tides, the Unblinking Eye

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  It does not chase. It does not weep. It watches. The Crab teaches that most suffering is met not with malice—but indifference. It is armor. It is silence. It is the cold, slow churn of

  inevitability.

  These are not gods. These are truths. Cosmic instincts. The Constellations of Calamity. They do not listen when you pray. They were here before you learned to beg.

  Corpse — Stagnation, Silence, the Long Peace

  The Stillness That Hungers Without Teeth

  Beneath the constellations lies Corpse.

  Corpse is not evil. Corpse is not dead. It is rest without waking. Peace without motion. It promises no pain, and delivers no joy. The warmth of the grave, the comfort of endings. Many worship him unknowingly.

  More so willingly. For there is nothing quite so serene as a well lit corpse.

  He is the lull in every heartbeat, the soft surrender in every sigh.

  Polemios — Struggle, Seeking, the Fire That Will Not Die

  The Fight with No Prize

  He does not exist to win. He exists to resist.

  Against hunger. Against apathy. Against the long dark.

  Polemios claws upward with bleeding hands. He screams into the silence. He endures not because he believes he will survive, but because he must. For without movement, there is no life. And without life, there is only Corpse.

  Where Corpse waits, Polemios rises.

  Viridienne — The Cycle, The Womb of Rot and Renewal

  Mother of Both Seed and Soil

  She binds them both. The quiet god and the screaming one.

  She is not mercy. She is not vengeance. She is balance.

  Decay is her lullaby. Germination, her breath.

  Polemios resists her gravity. Corpse sinks into it. And yet both are hers. For without death, no seed may root. And without birth, death is merely the vanity of a universe lost.

  Thus is the wheel turned. Thus are the roles eternal.

  Not Right. Not Wrong. Only the rhythm of Viridienne's Breath against the uncaring constellations.

  May your sparks burn longer than the silence. May your rot feed the root.