Hidden hands, crack the codes of the growing mountains, they howl right back into the face of the storm. Fire in the dirt, ashes in the harvests, the herds have left the fields for the city, the herds have left the fields to smolder and smoke.

Hidden hands plunged deep into the salt of the oceans, brought down from the face of the sky. Cornerstones cast in the forge, hammer pounded, hammer born. Rhythms in the iron, iron in the hammer born.

Hidden hands that sculpt the images that flash behind enchanted eyes, answering the calls, horns that crash against the blackened cliffs. To be the one that stands at the end, to be the one that ends. Crystallized in this moment, to be the one that ends