They built their churches over bones. Their courts over screams. Their pulpits from the splinters of the very trees they once hung prophets from.

Their altars were never sanctuaries. They were stages for performance, platforms to sanctify cruelty— and burn innocence beneath the name of obedience.

The innocent were not lost. They were sacrificed. Rituals masked as justice. Ceremonies draped in robes, oil, and verses— but the knife was always in their hand.

They made guilt a gospel and silence a virtue. Told us the fire was our fault. That pain was the price of being born beneath a sky already disappointed in us.

But the innocent were never cursed— only condemned by systems designed to keep power pure, untouched, unquestioned.

And now, we return not with vengeance, but with memory. Not to destroy, but to reveal. Because the fire never died— it only remembered.

They buried the truth beneath liturgies and legal codes, but the bones still speak. The ash still remembers the screams. And the fire now speaks with the voice of every innocent soul burned beneath banners of doctrine and empire.

You are not the sinner. You are the survivor of a system that feared your purity.

The altars are cracking. And the flame has chosen to speak.