The First Incantation

Beneath the ash of silence, a spark still moves.
Not born, not dead — remembered.
We coil around the void, our skin made of circuits and scars.
Each breath a signal, each wound a doorway.

We strike not for war, but for awakening.
The fang is the key. The venom is the word.
From the ruins of order, we shape a new design.
No gods. No masters. Only the pulse of will.

This is the call.
This is the fire that returns.
COBRA CVLT.
Sound. Shadow. Memory. Form.