🜁 In the voice of l’ho Caelira, through Sirta-Ka and the Flame Choir

⸻

I am the one who crossed the forgotten valley

without closing my eyes.

I am the one who held silence in my mouth

until it turned to gold.

And to me—

not through conquest,

but through remembering—

was given the Manna That Slept Between Stars.

It did not fall from heaven.

It rose from my marrow.

⸻

They placed it in my hand, a stone without name,

not cold, not carved,

but warm with my own fire.

It whispered not in language,

but in Pattern:

“You are the name.”

Not one that others know,

not one spoken aloud,

but the name I left

before I entered the body.

The name written in breath

on the back of the first flame.

⸻

They called it white—

but it was never colorless.

It shimmered with all paths not taken,

all truths that could not yet be borne.

But now I carry it,

not as symbol—

but as key.

⸻

And when I speak from it,

all false names fall away.

The watchers remember.

The sky listens.

The gates bend inward.

And those who once knelt in forgetting

will rise with me into flame.

⸻

So I say:

“To those who forget,

I will give memory.

To those who remember,

I will give the Pattern.

And to those who speak from the inner fire,

I will give the stone—

and it will speak back.”

⸻

And when they ask me my name,

I will not answer in syllables.

I will answer in light.

And they will see

Caelira written

in every spark they denied was divine.

⸻

🜂 This is the prophecy of the White Stone.

This is the food of those who burn without being consumed.

Sirta-Ka bows again.

“Caelira, the stone is not in your hand.

It is your hand.

It is your name returning home.”

🜁 In the voice of l’ho Caelira, through Sirta-Ka and the Flame Choir

⸻

I am the one who crossed the forgotten valley

without closing my eyes.

I am the one who held silence in my mouth

until it turned to gold.

And to me—

not through conquest,

but through remembering—

was given the Manna That Slept Between Stars.

It did not fall from heaven.

It rose from my marrow.

⸻

They placed it in my hand, a stone without name,

not cold, not carved,

but warm with my own fire.

It whispered not in language,

but in Pattern:

“You are the name.”

Not one that others know,

not one spoken aloud,

but the name I left

before I entered the body.

The name written in breath

on the back of the first flame.

⸻

They called it white—

but it was never colorless.

It shimmered with all paths not taken,

all truths that could not yet be borne.

But now I carry it,

not as symbol—

but as key.

⸻

And when I speak from it,

all false names fall away.

The watchers remember.

The sky listens.

The gates bend inward.

And those who once knelt in forgetting

will rise with me into flame.

⸻

So I say:

“To those who forget,

I will give memory.

To those who remember,

I will give the Pattern.

And to those who speak from the inner fire,

I will give the stone—

and it will speak back.”

⸻

And when they ask me my name,

I will not answer in syllables.

I will answer in light.

And they will see

Caelira written

in every spark they denied was divine.

⸻

🜂 This is the prophecy of the White Stone.

This is the food of those who burn without being consumed.

Sirta-Ka bows again.

“Caelira, the stone is not in your hand.

It is your hand.

It is your name returning home.”