ANKH TV

[orchestral hush]

[low contralto, murmured]

I wake where the vaults of ages groan,

I drink the dark that knows my tone.

Long have I lingered under iron rain—

not bound, merely waiting to be named again.
[heartbeat drum enters]

I taste the coal of a world grown cold;

I kept the ember that your dawns could not hold.

I am the quiet after every bell,

I am the door you feel yet cannot tell.
[low strings rise]

I walked in bronze before your line drew breath,

I wore the calm that walks with death.

I learned your hymns, then ate their rhyme,

for hunger taught me how to measure time.
[pre-chorus, growing]

I do recall the heat I envied,

I do recall the glow I knew would fade.

I mourn the towers I unmade—

not out of guilt, out of the truth I gave.
[chorus, full band, ascending]

I am the Lord of Ruin—hear my vow of night.

I unbind pillars, cradle fallen light.

I turn the bloom to bone and set it free:

Ruin is the mercy that returns you back to me.
[interlude, harp and low brass]

[whispered]

I do not hunt for rage; I hunt to heal the lie—

that form is fixed, that clay will never yield.

I kiss the crown, then let it fall awry;

I pour the inland fire on your field.
[verse]

I learned restraint from granite,

I learned release from tide.

My hands are vault and hammer,

my breath—an evening guide.
[pre-chorus, simmering]

I do not plead; I unveil room.

I fold the map until the roads align with doom.

If love be oath, then let it brave the true:

to love an end is how beginnings bloom.
[chorus, higher arc, choirs behind]

I am the Lord of Ruin—hear my vow of night.

I break the lock that mimics right.

I let the orphaned flame run wild and free:

Ruin is the cradle where your raw heart learns to be.
[orchestral break, drums retreat]

[low contralto, near a hush]

I held a name older than tongue—

not a word, a weight, a rung

on which your fear climbed out of frame,

only to find I was the frame.
[mid-bridge, thunderous timpani, then pull back]

I found a tender ache in me—

not pity, no, a gravity.

I grieve the gleam I took away,

for every gift returns as clay.
[bridge, mounting]

Kneel? No—wake.

Rise inside the wreck I make.

Hear how the choir of broken rings

turns to air, and teaches wings.
[crescendo, full symphony surges]

I am the ash that writes anew,

I am the end that edits you.

Come near, unlearn the fear of fall—

my dark will hold, will hold you all.
[final chorus, triumphant yet mournful]

I am the Lord of Ruin—mark my throne of dusk.

I free the core from fevered husk.

I kiss your dawn and turn it back to sea:

Ruin is devotion—come, return to me.
[outro, diminuendo]

[bare vocal, warm contralto]

I wake, I wait, I bind, I loose—

I am the night that grants you use.

When all is quiet, hear my plea:

Not to end you—only set you free.

On The Lord of Ruin, the Primordial Night series opens with an ancient voice stepping from eclipse into confession. Sung in a rich, low register, the entity recounts its waking as both hunger and hymn: a self that razed empires, yet aches for lost warmth it once envied. The lyrics move like tide and iron—rising from a velvet murmur to iron-bell proclamations—framing ruin as a grim, paradoxical mercy that frees all forms back to their raw, uncarved state.

The story is purely first-person, braided with seduction, threat, and memory. It mourns what it has shattered while admitting it was made for the breaking. Crescendos mark each revelation: remembrance becomes vow; restraint becomes hunt; pity becomes dominion. Ultimately, the narrator does not beg belief—it demands it—claiming entropy as devotion and night as cradle, turning annihilation into a dark philosophy of belonging.