I did not ask to be chosen. I did not seek out the burden of sacredness or the weight of unseen war. But in the silence between battles and the spaces between breath, something called my name—and it was not a whisper. It was thunder.It came at night, as these things always do. When the world is quiet and the lies no longer hold. I was not sleepin

"The Warning"by Roy DawsonI told them not to do it. I said it as plain as the morning sun cutting through a dirty window. No poetry. No flair. Just truth in its simplest, hardest form. The kind of truth that doesn't need decoration because it's been earned—paid for in scars and sleepless nights.But they did it anyway.They always do.They hear the

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