I was once a great conqueror. My hands beheld a roaring weapon that swept the nations into the seas. My armies were masterful painters- their brushstroke was of blood and ash that stretched to every horizon. But my sword arm grows heavy, and my resolve has run thin. The prophets tell of a Master of Voices. They can ask flowers to bloom from the driest desert. They can sing songs so beautiful they halt armies in their march. Perhaps, they can convince me that I need not exist.

— SONG OF TOMORROW —