Vileth Degraced

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Whispers in perfume.

Rot beneath velvet.

A name that slithered past teeth

and called itself holy.

But there was never sanctity—

only seduction,

only survival,

only the hunger to be adored

and the gall to feed on it.

The fall was not a moment.

It was a slow, sweet decay—

savored.

Welcomed.

She bathed in belief

and pissed on every prayer.

And now—

no veil.

No stage.

Only the wreckage she authored

in the mirror she cracked.

This is not grief.

This is not loss.

This is rot, finally named.

A reckoning carved in bone.

A curse reborn in blood.

Vileth.

Degraced.

Let it echo.

Let it burn.

Let it be the war cry

for every soul she tried to swallow.