I. I have seen the sky torn open. Not with thunder, but with will. As if reality itself were a wound and Dagon's blade the truth beneath the skin.

The towers fell. The stars watched. And no one—not even kings— were spared the knowing: that peace is only the breath between fires.

II. They called it Oblivion. But it was not empty. It was filled— with purpose twisted into flame, with prayers that burned backwards, and with the echo of gods too proud to answer.

I walked there. Through gates born of hatred and stone that bled. Not to triumph— but to return.

Some do not.

III. Cyrodiil is not saved. It is preserved. Like a cracked fresco still kissed by sunlight.

The empire holds, not by might, but memory. By names etched in gold, and sacrifices no song dares sing.

Martin—he was the dragon. I was only the flame that lit his pyre.

IV. Do not look to me for glory. I am not what I was. Each realm I walked took something. My dreams now wear ash. My voice holds screams I cannot claim as mine.

But still— I stand. And in that standing, perhaps there is virtue. A kind of faith that does not require gods to kneel.

V. There is no end to evil. Only vigilance. Only choice. And the hope that when the next gate opens, someone will step through.

Not to conquer— but to close it.

So let the scrolls turn. Let the stars move.

And may this small flame I carry be enough to light the path for the next who walks into Oblivion.