A Shadow Swallowed by the Sky

The loom hums, endless.

Three figures bend over its weave, fingers pale and certain.

One thread trembles, thin as breath.

A blade flashes—not cruel, only inevitable.

The strand loosens, drifts, vanishes into the dark.

Above, a raven lifts from the branch.

No sound of wings, no farewell cry.

Only the sudden absence,

a shadow swallowed by sky.

The world shivers at the loss,

though it cannot name it.

A silence spreads,

like frost across stone,

like ash across the hearth.

Ease lies in severance,

in the quiet surrender to shadow.

Defiance lies in endurance,

in the thread that refuses the blade,

in the bird that circles back,

black wings cutting against the dusk.

And so the verdict stands, mythic and absolute:

slip away into shadow,

or stay,

and let the gods themselves reckon with your defiance.

The loom falls silent, its cut thread drifting into shadow.

From the silence, wings rise—

not the raven’s, but the Valkyries,

their armor gleaming like frost,

their eyes lit with the fire of judgment.

They descend upon the battlefield of choice,

where absence and endurance clash unseen.

One hand offers release,

a passage into shadow,

ease carried on the wind.

The other hand grips the spear,

demanding defiance,

demanding the weight of staying.

To remain is to fight,

to let the gods themselves reckon with your breath.

The Valkyries do not soften the verdict.

They do not plead.

They stand as witnesses,

cold and eternal,

guardians of the choice:

slip away into shadow,

or stay,

and endure beneath their gaze.