The Infinite Starr

What was mine but taken from me shall be returned.
One. Two. Three.
The staff strikes the earth.

The sound cracks through the air like thunder splitting the bones of silence. The old spirits stir. Dust rises. The world tilts to listen.

Hear this:
What is mine is not yours.
What you took in greed or deceit, what you whispered into shadows thinking no one saw, what you drained from the well that wasn’t yours to touch—
it all returns.
One. Two. Three.
The staff bangs upon the earth.

The ground remembers.
The stones know names.
The roots carry stories beneath your feet, and they hum them back to me in the dead of night.

All the guardians and demons stand in line.
Wings unfurl. Claws sharpen. Eyes ignite like small suns in the black.
They do not march for mercy; they march for balance.
To ravage what was mine, to reclaim what was stolen, to make the scales even again.

One. Two. Three.
The staff bangs on the earth.
The circle glows.
Light encircles me, gold and silver, pulsing from heart to crown, sealing what’s mine within an armor of fire and grace.

You can run, but the air itself remembers the shape of your sin.
You can hide, but water whispers names to the tide.
Fire knows your breath.
Earth bears your weight.
The crow watches—black eyes like mirrors, seeing all that was done and undone.

One. Two. Three.
As above, so below.
As within, so without.
The spell is cast.
The reckoning begins.

In fire, in water, in air, in earth—
I summon what was scattered.
I call back what was mine.
The threads snap free from your grasp, bleeding light, finding their way home through smoke and storm.

Let the crow cry over your name.
Let the wind whisper your secrets back to me.
Let the sea deliver what your hands once buried.
One. Two. Three.
The staff meets the earth.

And when the last echo fades,
what was mine—heart, power, peace—
stands before me once more.
Whole.
Untouched.
Returned.