The Illusion of Free Press: The Shroud of the Silent Sovereigns

Picture a place—halls draped in shadow, where the air thrums with whispers older than the hills, older than the songs of the stars. They call it “the free press” out there in the sunlit world, a phrase tossed around like a holy relic, chanted by folks hunched over flickering screens or trudging through muddy streets. But here’s the thing: don’t be fooled.

It’s a shimmering trick, a veil stitched from half-truths by hands you’ll never see, dipped deep in ink that’s blacker than night. The news? That endless river of chatter and calamity? It’s no reflection of what’s real, it’s a spell, a crooked dance of words spun by the Silent Sovereigns, those eerie watchers lurking just beyond the mist.

The Scribes Who Serve the Unseen

Way back—think starlight and giant shadows stomping the earth—the Silent Sovereigns took root. Not your typical kings, mind you, no crowns or clinking gold. They were something else, keepers of what we think we know, their thrones hacked from the jagged bones of truths nobody remembers.

They called up the first scribes, mortals with quills that wept shadow and flickered with light. To most, these were just tale-tellers, scribbling down the day’s scraps. But peek closer, go on, squint—and you’d see them for what they were: priests of a secret rite, every word they scratched a knot in some grand, invisible web.

Now? Their blood runs in the veins of the ones we call editors, reporters, and those loudmouths on the radio. They’ve got no swords, just stories—headlines like runes burned into your skull. But don’t kid yourself, they’re not the ones pulling the strings. Up above, the Silent Sovereigns murmur their orders through rustling pages, through the static hum of a broadcast, bending the world like a potter slaps wet clay.

Chains Glinting in the Gloom

Here’s where it gets wild. These days, everybody’s got a voice—shouting into the void from their little glowing boxes, their crystal codices. Freedom, they scream, we’ve got freedom! But lean in, listen hard—hear that faint clink? Chains, my friend, shimmering in the dark. Five big players, hulking houses of trade and shadow, they’ve got the keys to this game. Call ‘em the Keepers of the Word—pockets stuffed with influence, they sift the news like gravel, letting only the bits they like trickle down to us thirsty fools.

And behind them? Oh, there’s talk—hushed, half-mad talk- of the Obsidian Council. A gang of faceless watchers, answering straight to the Sovereigns. Governments grovel, war-dealers barter, even the ideologues bow low, all trading secrets for a seat at that table. Together, they keep the illusion spinning—news isn’t a window; it’s a mirror, showing only what the Sovereigns want you to see.

Shadows Twirling With Light

So why care? Why let your heart skip a beat over this? Because the news isn’t just gossip—it’s the world’s heartbeat, the rhythm that jolts us awake or lulls us to sleep. When the Silent Sovereigns whisper famine, you’ll feel hunger gnawing at your bones before the fields even dry up.

They mutter war, and you’ll dream of clashing steel long before the first drop of blood hits the dirt. It’s a game, a masquerade, shadows and light twirling together, truth and lies cheek-to-cheek, and us? We’re the crowd, spellbound, missing the strings dangling overhead.

Try to spot the puppet masters, though, and you’re flirting with lunacy—they thrive in the haze. Still, some do it. Rogue seers, wild-eyed scribblers, clawing at the veil. Plenty vanish, poof, gone, snuffed out like a candle in a gale. Others hang on, tossing warnings to the wind: that news you gulp down? It’s a brew, cooked up to soothe or stir, to blind you tight or chain you loose.

Waking Up, Maybe

So here you are, teetering on the edge of this chasm. Dare to look. Ask it, who’s really holding the quill? The Silent Sovereigns are watching, their chuckles rippling through the air, as the world spins under their thumb. The free press?

Their slickest trick yet, a myth so gorgeous it’s practically alive, a lie you want to kiss. But wait—there’s a crack in it, a tiny glow. Catch it, and the whole thing might unravel. You might hear the stars sing again, snatch the story back from the ones who’d write your end.

‘Cause here’s the kicker: the news isn’t just theirs. It could be ours—if we’ve got the guts to grab it.