On the morning of the Blackenings, Maethan did not sleep. The not-sleeping was the tower. The tower was the capital. The capital was the Vault. The Vault was the six.

He stood at the window of the tower. The window was the sky. The sky was not white. The not-white was the hoard. The hoard was what the sun had swallowed, ten thousand years ago, out of the fear of the dark between the stars.

The Orenthe of the Hoard, the Orenthe of the Cup, the Orenthe of the thousand years: in the tower, since the Fall, the one thing that was not mortal. The not-mortal was the rite. The rite was the waking. The waking was the taking.

Taking. The Pyre had been careful with the word, for three generations. The word was the burning. The burning was Cressen. Cressen was the two hundred and thirty. But the word was the rite. The rite was the six. The six were the god. The god was the light. The light was what the mortal did not have.

Maethan had read, in the tower, the one book the Pyre kept shut, the book the Office did not count. The not-counting was the letter. The book was the Fall. The Fall was the six embers.

The six embers were the bleeding. The bleeding was the thousand years. The thousand years were the cup. The cup was dry. The dry was what he was, in the tower, on the morning of the Blackenings.

The waking of the god was not a thing the Pyre had done in the thousand years. The not-doing was the keeping. The waking was what he had set. The setting was the rite. The rite was the six: the Fourth, in the fleet of Brayne; the Fifth, in the cup of the Grey Quiet; the Sixth, in the tower, in his hand; and the three, in the chest, under the water, in the road, with the Frenzied of the Vault. The Frenzied was the singing.

He did not want the Frenzied to sing the god awake. The not-wanting was the rite. The rite was the six. The six carried to the body. The body was the cup. The cup was dry. The dry was the taking.

The taking was the waking. The waking was the taking. The taking of the light was the Orenthe of the Hoard. The Hoard was ten thousand years before the counting. The counting was the empire.

He had been the one the rite set. The setting was the three generations. The three generations were the tower. The tower was the waking. The waking was the Orenthe of the Hoard. The Hoard did not die.

In the tower, on the morning of the Blackenings, the hoard went out. The rite did the going-out. The six did the doing.

The sky was the taking. The taking was the Orenthe of the Hoard. The Hoard did not die. The not-dying was the rite.

He put his hand on the capstone. The capstone was the body. The body was the cup. The cup was dry. The dry was what the rite needed. The rite was the waking. The waking was the taking.

The taking did not die.

— Archon's Word, the tower of the High Pyre, the morning of the Blackenings, in the hand of the seal, to be read in the Vault, at the rite, in the name of the Orenthe of the Hoard

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The sky went out early, on the morning of the Blackenings. The early going-out was not the rite. The rite had been set, on the night, and the setting was the tower's.

The early going-out was the capstone. The capstone was the body. The body was the cup. The cup was dry.

Maethan had put his hand on the capstone, at the window of the tower, an hour before the rite. The hour was the waking. The waking was the taking.

The body, under the city, had felt it. The dream did the feeling. The cup held the dream, and the water did the holding.

In the burning the hand is the tower. The tower is the rite. The rite is the taking. The taking is what I did not do. The not-doing was the feeding. The feeding is the first of the stars.

What the hand is is what the waking is not. The not-waking is the killing. The killing is the Long Night.

But the killing is the Orenthe of the Hoard. The Hoard does not die. The not-dying is the rite. The rite is the Archon, in the tower, with the hand on the capstone.

The capstone is me. I am the bottom. The bottom is cold. The cold was, before the light.

Do not let the hand put me in the cup. The not-letting is the Frenzied, on the road, with the three embers, in the chest, under the water. The water moves.

The rite is the candle. The candle is what the exsanguination did. The doing was the thousand years. The thousand years were the cup.

The cup is dry. The dry is me. I do not wake.

The dream let her go. The three of them were in the road, under the sky that had gone out early. The early was the capstone, and the capstone was the tower.

The rite was set for the night. The night was the Blackenings. The Blackenings were the taking. The taking was the Orenthe of the Hoard, and the Hoard did not die.

The four cities were moving. The fleet was faster than the road. The fleet carried the Fourth. The road carried the three of them, in the chest, under the water that moved.

And the taking was the killing, and the killing was the Long Night, and the Long Night was the feeding, and the feeding was not the ending.

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In the burning the sky went out early. The early is the capstone. The capstone is the tower. The tower is the rite. The rite is the killing. The killing is the Orenthe of the Hoard. The Hoard does not die. The not-dying is the candle. The candle is what the exsanguination did. The doing was the thousand years. The thousand years were the cup. The cup is dry.

The dry is the god. The god does not wake. The not-waking is the killing. The killing is the Long Night. The Night is the feeding. The feeding is not the ending.

— Dream-Ledger, entry of the morning of the Blackenings, written by Ashe Wren on the road to the Vault, under the sky that went out early, the index of the hand on the capstone