Orryphage — The Devourer of Oaths

Walls fed on vows,
altars drank lies.
The Codex opened,
and silence burned.

They once called it a cathedral. Scribes, watchers, and priests gathered within, binding words of worship into scrolls and scripture. They believed their oaths would anchor faith, that their ink would chain the Codex itself. But vows are meat, and Orryphage was already hungry.
 
Each promise whispered in its halls fed the stone. Each oath spoken became tinder. The walls groaned beneath the weight of false devotion, until the Codex split them open. Fire poured through windows like hymns, gargoyles shrieked flame, and the reliquary itself bled smoke.
 
The faithful burned with their scriptures still clutched in hand. The watchers saw, but did not flee — for the Codex had inked their deaths long before the first spark.
 
Now Orryphage burns without end. Not ash, not ruin, but devouring. Those who step inside hear their own vows whispered back in flame, only to feel the fire enter their lungs. Some claim that deep within, behind the veil of smoke, lies a fragment of the Codex itself — a lost Cycle sealed in living fire.
 
But the Codex laughs through Orryphage. It is not a house of worship, nor a reliquary, nor a ruin. It is a mouth — a cathedral that devours oaths, spitting back only fire and silence.