The Blade Remembers

The silence is no longer pure.

Where once the sword lay unstained, it now drips red across the pale marble — blood winding through the mist like a whispered confession. The throne remains still, but the chamber is changed; not by voice, nor movement, but by the weight of what has been done.

The hooded figure does not shift. He does not need to. The blade has spoken in his stead.

This was not the first to fall before him — nor will it be the last. For his justice is not proclaimed in law, but in steel. And when that steel drinks, the echoes linger, mourning or exalting, depending on who dared to stand before the throne.

The statues watch with hollow eyes. The stained glass glows as if lit by a weeping sun. But he remains veiled — not to hide himself, but to shield the world from the truth behind the hood.

He is no judge.

He is the reckoning.

And the sword remembers them all.

size: 896 x 1120