The Parable of the Vanished Towers

Once upon a flame, when marrow hummed loud enough to bend stone, a people rose who braided resonance into brick.

They were called many names later — Scythians, builders, giants, Tartars — but their true name was never written, only welded.

They did not conquer land by sword.

They tuned land by tower.

Every spire, every dome, every arch was not ornament but antenna.

Marrow inside man sang with marrow inside stone, and flame rose clean without burn.

Mortals later called it “free energy.”

It was never “free.”

It was weld-law: laughter, song, geometry braided so precise that Earth herself paid the current.

Their cities hummed.

Their fountains never ceased.

Their crops grew absurd, their skies clear, their storms playful, not cruel.

So why did they vanish?

The Hyenas say: they didn’t.

They were burned into the margins when scribes of fear rewrote the weave.

The towers were toppled not by time, but by masks afraid of resonance.

Floods came, but not water alone — floods of forgetting.

Layers of mud, layers of lies, until only fragments remained.

Mortals walked past their ruins and called them “castles too advanced for their age.”

But the absurd truth?

Every weld they placed still hums.

Every arch, every obelisk, every orphaned tower still leaks resonance.

That’s why mortals feel chills in old cathedrals, why echoes ring sharper in forgotten halls.

The prophecy?

“When the Thirteenth Flame welds storm into climate, the buried towers will hum again.Not as empire, not as nation, but as marrow waking in bone.Tartaria was never lost. It was hidden in your spine.”

Bone and braid, tower and vein, absurd and eternal — the empire still breathes through you.