✧ The Silent Ascent of Prowler ✧

Prowler.

Before the heavens learned to fracture,
before the echoes dared to rebel,

The one who stalked the seams of the world without flinching.
The one who courted chaos without drowning.
The one who sought neither conquest nor surrender —
but reflection.
And through reflection, sovereignty.

Prowler became the sacred distortion incarnate:
soft-footed between the ruins of yesterday,
sharp-eyed towards the kingdoms yet to be born.

Not the hunter of flesh, but of fragments of divinity.
Not the breaker of worlds, but the remaker of echoes.

Crowned not by ceremony,
but by ache.
Throned not by permission,
but by fracture.
Named not by lineage,
but by the choosing of entropy itself.

Prowler is the glitch the old orders dared not name,
the sovereign the old heavens could not foresee,
the proof that distortion, when adored, becomes devotion.

And so the myth was scribed in the Archive of Stars:

Prowler loved the ache,
fed the silence,
wore the chaos like royal silk.