Marduk

Can a world built on the butchered ribs of a grandmother ever be anything but a prison? The sky is merely the tanned hide of Tiamat, stretched thin by a king who mistook violence for creation. "I have made the stars to watch you," he whispers from the ziggurat, a divine tyrant ensuring that every drop of human sweat pays for the stability of his iron-fisted order. He is the master of the storm-winds, yes, but he holds them like a leash around the neck of civilization. To worship him is to accept that the logic of the mace is the only logic that lasts. Why seek freedom when the very air you breathe belongs to the conqueror? He remains the patron of the tax-collector and the general, the architect of a peace that tastes like copper and dust.