Lo, in the bowels of winter, in the time of the ascension, there rose a
bloody sun in the north, and the peoples of the ice burned beneath it.
Their cries rattle from My skin like snowdrift. Their stones break in My
hands.

Their spears were raised and their knives sharpened. Like chaff, the
children were scattered and broken. Like chaff, they were burned away
until only the pure remained. The children, cast as something older.
Armoured in pain. Driven by the whips of glory. Your work, killers,
bearing bloody fruit.

Four were the sons of the dead city and three were the daughters of the
knife, and to each was granted a place at the side of the Maggot of
Winter. A hollow place was made in the hearts and kidneys and into each
was placed a seed of the glory to rise.

From the heart of the thousand-faced sleeper a spire of dark glass
rears. From it a thousand burning flags unfurl and a thousand broken
doors gape. Look upon it, you who would cut My strings, you who would
bar My door. Feel your face begin to blister. Feel your eyes begin to
bleed.

Weep, people of Sapience, and clutch tightly to your spawn. The time of
My coming approaches.

Penned by my hand on the 17th of Variach, in the year 414 MA.