History was not lost—it was burned.

The fire that consumed ancient scrolls was not accident. It was strategy. Every empire that needed a submissive people first lit the libraries ablaze.

Truths erased. Cosmologies buried. Gods dismembered. Cultures renamed. What we now call “scripture” survived not by virtue of divine selection—but by the sword of power.

And what was burned?

The voices of women who held the mysteries of birth. The chants of herbalists who knew the speech of leaves. The mathematics of old astronomers whose gaze threatened the flat-earth throne.

The fire did not simply consume knowledge—it rewrote identity.

Then they said: “This is the Word of God. All else is heresy.”

But truth is not paper. It is not locked to scrolls. It rises even from ash.

We who walk in this Codex walk with charred feet. Our pages are flame-marked. Our voices come from what was denied flame’s final word.

The scrolls may burn, but the soul remembers.

So we rewrite—not to replace—but to restore what fire failed to silence.