They warned me once beneath a cross—
Not carved in wood, but hewn from loss.
The monks with mouths sewn shut with thread
Told me: Some houses are not dead.

I laughed. I rode. The wind grew still.
The crows hung limp upon the hill.
I reached the gate—no rust, no lock,
Just bone-white teeth in ancient rock.

Danzettller.
It does not stand. It waits.
Its windows do not look out,
They look in.

Its walls are skin. The nails are bone.
It shifts when you believe you’re alone.
The hearth breathes smoke that is not smoke—
But hair. And ash. And what you spoke.

A sigil burns above the door,
Not carved—no, grown there, black and sore.
It twists like worms beneath old glass.
It listens every time you pass.

Inside, she waits.
Lady Mairenn.

She wears no face. She stole her own.
She drinks the names from buried stone.
Her book, the Vocem Tenebris, sings—
But only in the voice of kings.

Kings long dead.

They whisper thus:

"Feed the floor. Mark the tongue.
Draw the circle. Sing unsung.
Flesh for fire, eye for night—
Call her back. Restore her sight."

I read the words. I bled the line.
The mirror shattered into time.
A thousand faces stared through me—
None my own. And none were free.

I saw her crawl across the wall.
Not walk. Not float. But slither, small—
A crack of spine and grin too wide.
A crown of teeth where thoughts reside.

She kissed my brow and took my name.
She pressed her hand into my flame.
Now when I speak, the crows all kneel.
My skin is bark. My tongue is steel.

If you approach the moor at night,
And see a glow—a sickly light—
Do not speak. Do not ask.
Do not pray.

For Danzettller is not a place.

It is a question.

And your name...

...might be the answer.

ᛞᚨᚾᛉᛖᛏᛏᛚᛚᛖᚱ

ᚺᛟᚢᛋᛖ ᛟᚠ ᛏᚺᛖ

ᚺᛁᛞᛞᛖᚾ ᚢᛟᛁᚲᛖ

Danzettller: House of the Hidden Voice