A year without saints.
The Coven Annual Wheel follows no divine calendar.
Nineteen festivals mark the cycle – each of these nights disfigures a familiar ritual, desecrates a symbol, breaks a law.

What began as a reversal is no longer a break.
It has settled, left its mark, inscribed itself in every subsequent step.

The old meanings still hold true,
but they are losing weight.

And with each festival, it becomes clearer
that this year is not passing –
but closing.

What others celebrate as light, we transform into embers and shadows.

WELCOME TO THE ERA OF BLOOD AND SILENCE.

The seventh festival in the Coven Year.

And I saw the first seal broken.
Not by force,
but by something that seemed reasonable.

And with it came no outcry,
but a lack that remained.

The scales were raised,
yet they measured nothing more,
only what was missing.

And people saw it
and called it necessary.

And I saw the second seal opened.

And no war arose,
that could have been started or ended,
but a condition that spread,
until even peace seemed only a pause.

And people lived in it
and called it order.

And I saw the third seal fall.

And something began to see,
clearer than any gaze,
deeper than any doubt.

And what was seen,
vanished from the world,
without resistance,
without a trace.

And people looked at it
and called it security.

And I saw the fourth seal break.

And no storm came,
no outcry,
only a silence that spread
and made everything equal.

And beneath it everything grew weaker,
until nothing distinguished
what was once separate.

And people continued to breathe
and called it life.

And I saw that nothing stirred above them.
No sign, no intervention, no judgment.

And I understood that it had never been otherwise.

That what they considered guidance,
was nothing more than silence.

And that nothing turned away –
because nothing had ever turned towards it.

And beneath them, the beast rose from the deep.
Seven heads it bore, and on each lay a crown,
not granted, but taken.

And each head spoke with its own voice,
yet they did not contradict each other.

For they were one.

Grown from everything that was allowed,
nourished by everything that no one stopped anymore,
solidified by everything that was never questioned.

And it did not rise against the world.

It was the world.

Welcome to the Leviathan Gospel.

And I saw that the sky did not open,
because it had never been closed.

And I heard no horns,
because no one was waiting for them to sound anymore.

For everything that had been announced,
had long since begun.

And the riders did not ride across the land,
but through the days of men.

The first took nothing by force,
yet left less and less behind,
until even what was present
felt like a loss.

The second raised no sword,
yet left nothing intact,
that did not eventually break.

The third pronounced no judgment,
yet he saw everything,
and everything that was seen,
changed.

The fourth touched nothing,
and yet everything became quieter,
slower,
more indifferent,
until even the end no longer made a difference.

And above them stood nothing,
that intervened.

And beneath them grew that,
which held all this together.

Not as a ruler.
Not as a God.

But as that,
which arises when enough comes together,
to sustain itself.

And it was written:

“And they called it life,
while it slowly devoured them.”

Since then, it has been true:
The apocalypse does not begin,
when the world breaks.
But when it remains exactly as it is.