[Entry X}
The Throne of Cold Blood is the boundary between endings and erasure. To sit upon it is to feel your heartbeat fade until only will remains. It is said Vaelith grants mercy only to those who refuse it.
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The throne was never built—it grew. Ice blossomed where her blood fell, and the veins of the world hardened in her name. Vaelith, she who bound warmth in chains of frost, sits still upon her crystal marrow, her gaze a blade through time.
They say she was once a guardian of balance, but envy took root in her heart—envy for those who could burn. When she could no longer bear the pulse of mortal heat, she tore it from herself. Her veins froze mid-beat, her breath turned to glass, and all that remained was hunger wrapped in silence.
Now, she rules the stillborn realm—where motion dies and memory crystallizes. Those who dream of her wake colder, slower, and less human. Some say she whispers promises of rest; others claim she drains the warmth from souls who wander too close, keeping them as candles within her ribs.
The Dreamwalker does not speak her name aloud. For in the frozen tongue of Vaelith, even breath is a surrender.
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Record preserved by perilpoet
Download digital prints of the Throne of Cold Blood here
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