In the far distance, a black tower thrusts from the earth, one hand raised from its summit, either in farewell or in warning, it is impossible to tell. Drifting in the vault of night as if surrendering to something unspeakable. Draped in midnight’s own fabric, a body bound only by a slender golden chain at its hips, a gentle reminder that even in darkness, that are things that hold you.

This is a triumphant sovereign. That body, a marble sculpture of spent power, arcs downward in a silent, final surrender. Each muscle, once taut with command, is now slack with exhaustion, a memory of a fight now lost. The skin is pale, chilled by the vacuum, catching the faint, cold light of distant stars. We are denied the face, thrown back into the endless dark, a secret kept from the world below. Is it a gaze of agony, ecstasy, or simply the blankness of oblivion, suspended in the endless?

This small soul is the anchor to our world, the terrified, awestruck observer of a dying divinity. In this darkness, I see the profound melancholy of a cycle’s end. It is the heavy, silent spectacle of power becoming memory, of majesty giving way to the void. It is the moment night stops being a ruler and becomes a long, inexorable fall.