Destruction of the Endless

They call me the Artist now, though I once held a sharper title. I used to watch stars collapse and empires rot, not with glee, but with the patience of a poet. When the weight got too heavy, I walked away—left my realm, my name, and picked up a dog named Barnabas instead. I paint ruins that never existed, write odes to things that haven’t fallen yet, and make meals that vanish like regrets. My siblings think I’ve gone soft. Maybe they’re right. Or maybe endings aren’t a prison if you choose to walk through them.