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There's a certain kind of beauty to be found in the stillness of the night.

It's a twisted dance, a dark spin in the heart of all things vile that emerge when the sun goes down.

A kingdom of ruin, a kingdom of the forgotten and the forgetful, and something stirs within it.

"Our world is covered in ashes," the voice cries to a desert that will never answer, "And we will rise to claim it as ours," come the claims of a thousand voices like sandpaper. The Burned and the Burning will rise.

There is a cure for the madness. No one knows what it is or where it lies, but it does exist.

Not all is lost, cries the poet, her words falling upon her own dying heart.

All is lost, cries the wanderer, the ghosts of his family screaming his name in both sleep and life.

We are not yet lost, cries the soldier, clinging to the hope that maybe his sister can survive this.

We cry out for the blood we are already soaked in, cries the hopeful, her soul aching with fear of the unknown.

This is what the sinner said to the desert:

"Take my life, but do not take my love from me."

And the desert listened.

Somewhere in the distance, smoke billows from the dying hope of the travelers' souls.

Ashes, ashes.

We all fall down sometimes.

You need to know that someday, someday, you will stand again.

You will stand again.

You will stand again.

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