Silence has a maker.

It is not always peace. Often, it is power—cloaked in reverence, wrapped in incense, placed behind veils and pulpits.

It was not the heavens that silenced the questions of men. It was men who feared the sound of awakened minds.

The Architect of Holy Silence is not a god—but a design. It is the system that branded curiosity as rebellion, and labeled the natural urge to know as sin.

When children asked, “Why must we believe?”—they were hushed. When prophets cried, “Who wrote this law?”—they were stoned. When mothers grieved, “Why did my child die though I fasted?”—they were told, “God is sovereign.”

This silence is not holy. It is imposed. It was manufactured by those who needed a quiet flock. Not thinkers. Not seers. Not unbound ones.

The Architect hides in every fear that says: “Do not ask.”

In the Codex, we unveil this silence. We do not whisper in shrines. We roar in the open.

Let the broken prayers rise again as questions. Let the muted doubts speak in the tongue of fire. Let the imprisoned minds taste their own sound once more.

There is no blasphemy in seeking. Only the return of responsibility.