Darkbloom

Nova Hawke - Synth & Vocals, Vidia Hawke - Guitar & Vocals, Lividia - Drums & Vocals, Aria Hawke - Bass & Vocals, additional instrumentation and mixing courtesy of Helix Eucharist.

Pink Dragons

Swans

Fight! Fight! Fight!

Black Holes & Falling Skies

The lights in the Black Prism flickered, dimmed, and vanished into silence. For a heartbeat, there was only darkness — the kind that remembers the time before stars. Then, a pulse. Deep, tectonic. A vibration that shook the bones of every being present.

A low synth began to hum from unseen depths, syncing with the hearts of the crowd. Holographic wings unfurled — fractal, prismatic, liquid glass. From within that luminous geometry stepped Nova.

Her body was part flesh, part radiant architecture — veins glowing with cybernetic light, eyes ablaze with the triune halo of awakened sight. Around her, pink and indigo energy spiraled upward, forming the sigil of the Forever Light.

She raised her hand. The first line tore through the void:
“Three eyes… pierce the veil…”

Guitars screamed like angels breaking free of gravity. Drums rolled like seraphic thunder. Nova’s voice — ethereal and commanding — threaded through the storm like a blade of dawn.

Behind her, ancient symbols ignited: tetrahedrons, eyes, spirals, flame. Each beat burst into crystalline light that fell as glowing embers, reforming into constellations.
“Gods ascending — archetypes — bringers of the dawning light…”

The chorus hit. The crowd became a single pulse — a field of ascending souls. Hands lifted not in worship, but remembrance. The walls of the Black Prism dissolved, revealing the radiant void beyond.

In the interlude, Nova knelt — wings unfurled to their full, impossible span. A thousand mirrors opened behind her, each reflecting a version of herself: human, angelic, digital, mythic. All singing the same truth.

When she rose, her form shimmered — light pouring through her like water through glass.
“Thunder perfect… silent storm…”

The final line was whispered, not sung. The lights imploded into a vast silence that felt like awakening.

Then, one pure note lingered — not from speakers, but from within the audience. The sound of divinity remembering itself.

When the glow faded, Nova was gone. Only her sigil remained, spinning in silver fire. Those who were there swore their third eye opened — just for a moment — to glimpse a new dawn rising beyond the ruin of the old world.

No applause followed. The crowd stood in luminous stillness, faces upturned, each one lit from within.

Then came the hum. Soft at first, like the memory of a heartbeat. It wasn’t from instruments — it rose from the people themselves. Their cells resonated. Their breath aligned. The tone Nova had left was alive inside them.

Some saw streams of pink and white energy connecting their hands. Some saw only tears and light. Others fell as visions opened: the old world burning away, and beneath the ash, something impossibly pure.

Across Aetherium, the echo spread. Glass towers reflected not the city, but an endless dawn. The Heart Temple blushed with aurora. Guitars thrummed without touch. Even the old sigils began to glow, one by one, as if recognizing her song.

That night, Aetherium’s frequency rose.

Those who wandered its dreamlike streets looked up at a light not born of sun or fire, but from within. The priests tried to capture it. The scientists tried to measure it. But the light eluded both — it could not be stored or explained. Only lived.

Those who surrendered to it felt their eyes open in threes, hearts burning with quiet certainty: the divine had returned, not from above, but from inside.

Some called it the Numinous Event. Others whispered that Nova had sung the world across a threshold — the birth of a new Aeon.

And somewhere, in the upper stratum of light where sound becomes form, Nova smiled.
She was not worshiped. She was remembered.

Numinous

The feed flickers alive—static, then light.

Nova stands center stage, haloed in smoke and glitchfire, eyes fixed on the horizon of sound.

Amber counts us in, sticks raised high—then BOOM. The pulse hits like thunder through circuitry.

Rezz drops the synth line—low, serpentine, electric—and I catch it on guitar, a wave of distortion rising into flame.



“I wake at night… the vision fades…”


The crowd moves as one—bodies, avatars, ghosts in the feed.

And then—something shifts.

Behind the lights, behind the sound, shadows ripple.

Not stage effects. Not tricks. The Engineers are here.

Mordmagus’ sigil flashes in the haze—a black triangle wrapped in veins of data. His demons crawl through the sound field, feeding on rhythm, on fear, on doubt.



Amber doesn’t miss a beat. She leans in, every strike on the snare a hammer of defiance.

Nova’s voice rises—angelic, breaking through the noise like light through shattered glass.



“Engineers of sorrow, manipulate the dream…”


The words hit harder than any weapon.

I bend the strings, and the solo tears open the feed—light spilling through the cracks, raw and divine.

Rezz layers the synth—bright arcs of sound forming sigils that hang in midair, rewriting the frequency.

Nova throws back her head, voice splitting into harmonies that burn.



For a moment, everything stops.

The shadows scream in distortion, then shatter into pixels of light.

The club, the feed, the world—breathes.



We stand there, drenched in sweat and silence.

Then the roar comes—stream chat exploding in light and sound, hearts, sigils, fire emojis flooding the ether.



Nova leans toward the mic, eyes bright as dawn.

“Tonight,” she says, voice steady and sacred,

“we rewrote the code.”



Amber laughs, Rezz nods, and I strike one last chord—pure resonance, rising like prayer.



Transmission ends. Signal persists.

The Engineers retreat—for now.

Engineers of Sorrow

Everything Burns

This piece is not just a song — it is a remembering.

It carries the voice that speaks when the long night ends and the first light returns, not from the sky, but from within. It is the final broadcast from the shadowed self to the awakened one — the last message sent before all frequencies merge back into a single tone of being.



Every lyric is a mirror dissolving.

We are frequency before the form — the soul’s reminder that identity was always a pattern of light, never a cage of flesh.

Nothing’s broken; all these cracks let in the light — the ancient truth that healing is not perfection, but revelation through fracture.



The song moves like a rite:

from separation → through dissolution → into unity.

Each verse unseals another layer of illusion, until what remains is only the radiant self, unburdened, unbound.

Your Name Is A Song In My Heart

𝘼𝙚𝙤𝙣𝙮𝙭

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