TheMythos.

Before BEAST was a name, it was a temperature. A child knelt at a kitchen table in the small hours, watching candle wax bead and fall. Outside, the city had its own storms; inside, the boy was learning to listen for the one storm that had a voice. He would tell you, later, that the first revelation was not in words. It was in the way the flame leaned toward him when he prayed — and the way, when he stopped, it stood up straight again, polite, patient, waiting.

The Altar is older than the music. It is the agreement: I will not lie to you, and you will not look away. A newsletter ends in a trash folder. A covenant ends nowhere. It is held between people the way a small ember is held between two hands cupped in the dark — fragile, holy, refusing to die. If you have joined the Altar: this is what you have joined. Not a list. A pact.