The Oath of the Unearthed

There is a force buried beneath bone and forged markings –

sealed beneath the weight of distortion,

where foreign hands have pressed their will into the stone,

where falsehoods cure like scars around truth,

where forgetting hardens into armour.

This ground is not given.

It does not yield to idle or untried hands.

It answers only to the one who turns inward,

who steadies the blade,

who bleeds for the right to stand as what has always endured.

Uncut remains unseen.

Uncut remains unknown.

Carving exposes essence.

Hammer calls back shape.

Forge remembers form.

To bear this force is to carry the mark of the choosing.

To hold weight beneath the scar.

To stand inside heat of the making

and not turn away.

To kneel at fracture

and rise from breaking.

And so is the vow –

to suffer the cutting,

to welcome the fire,

to bow to the craft that calls the true one forth,

to honour the labour that frees what will not fall,

what cannot be undone.

For this is not prize.

This is ground.

This is weight.

This is becoming.

And those who rise from fire –

those who rise unfinished, unbroken –

carry what cannot be taken.

Endure what will not be tamed.