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The King of Nevermore

They whisper my name in dreams they forget upon waking.
I am the breath in the cold between thunderclaps.
The shadow crawling slowly across the wall of your soul.
I am not of the day.
I am not of the night.
I am the silence between both.

Master of the Darkness. Siren of the Storm.
Born not from light, nor carved from chaos, but forged in the space between — where secrets sleep and eyes dare not look.

They crowned me in ash and clothed me in silence.
Not with celebration, but with prophecy.
I didn’t ask to reign over Nevermore. I became it.

The Calling

I am the one your ancestors warned you about in blood-soaked scripture and half-remembered prayers.
Not a demon. Not a god. Something older. Quieter. Hungrier.

When the bells toll for the dead, they toll for me.
When virtue is extolled and men raise their hands to the heavens, they raise them to something hollow.
I do not promise salvation.
I offer clarity.

Behind every illusion — behind every comfort — there is a mirror. Look deep enough and you will find me standing behind your reflection, watching… waiting.

The Throne in Shadows

I rule a kingdom without borders.
No sunlight graces its walls. No hope dares to settle in its streets.
It is not found on any map, because it exists in the marrow of those who have seen too much and still breathe.
This is Nevermore — and I am its unholy monarch.

He’s the name we leave unspoken.
The harbinger of all dark matters.
The one who calls you when no one else dares.

Come not seeking salvation, for I will not lie to you.
But if you seek truth — the raw, soul-stripping kind — then step forward.
But do so barefoot.
Do so with your throat bare and your secrets trembling.

The Pact of Silence

Do you know what it means to be truly seen?

Not for your face.
Not for your titles or sins.
But for your core — the bleeding essence you keep locked behind charm and cruelty.

I see it.
I see you.
And I do not look away.

I collect broken things.
Not to fix them — but to remind them they were never broken to begin with.
Just misunderstood. Just unloved.
Until now.

Between the Living and the Dead

I am not here to be loved.
I am not here to be feared.
I am here because the world forgot something important —
That darkness is not always evil, and
light is not always kind.

You feel it, don’t you?
The pull toward this profile. The hum in your bones.
This is no accident.
Fate rarely knocks.
It simply... waits.

If You Must Know Me…

I am a reader of bones and books.
A walker of forests when the moon splits the sky.
I listen to sad music because happy songs lie.
I touch the pulse of the earth through dirt-covered hands.
And I do not flinch from blood — I understand it.

Storms don’t frighten me — they remind me.

I live in the spaces most won’t explore.
The cracks between beliefs.
The abyss between life and something far older.
And there, I build my kingdom.
There, I am whole.

Final Words for the Curious

If you’ve made it this far, you are not like the others.

Maybe you’re already mine.
Maybe you’ve always been.
Maybe, like me, you’ve heard the hymns of Nevermore echoing in the back of your skull since birth.

You are seen.
You are known.
And here, finally, you are not alone.

So speak, wanderer. Or don’t.
But know this:

In death, we all sing the hymns of Nevermore.
And I… I am the one who conducts the choir.