A young woman tumbles through a stormlit sky, her hair streaming like ink across

$A young woman tumbles through a stormlit sky, her hair streaming like ink across thunderclouds. Her dark armor is fractured, burning at the edges as though struck by divine flame. Behind her, the shattered remains of a great obsidian tower crumble mid-air, its stones suspended in a moment of violent stillness. Lightning forks above, illuminating her face—eyes wide not with fear, but with realization. One hand reaches downward, the other clutches a torn banner scorched with symbols. Feathers, ash, and glowing embers whirl around her as she falls, or perhaps rises—impossible to tell. A crimson moon watches from behind the storm. She is not the architect nor the survivor—she is the falling truth. No text. No symbols. Just her.$

Excessive Force

A young woman tumbles through a stormlit sky, her hair streaming like ink across thunderclouds. Her dark armor is fractured, burning at the edges as though struck by divine flame. Behind her, the shattered remains of a great obsidian tower crumble mid-air, its stones suspended in a moment of violent stillness. Lightning forks above, illuminating her face—eyes wide not with fear, but with realization. One hand reaches downward, the other clutches a torn banner scorched with symbols. Feathers, ash, and glowing embers whirl around her as she falls, or perhaps rises—impossible to tell. A crimson moon watches from behind the storm. She is not the architect nor the survivor—she is the falling truth. No text. No symbols. Just her.

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