Crede of the Red Covenant

I breathe the air we made.

I stand where stone meets will.

I claim no dominion, only duty.

I shape my body as I shape the soil—with patience, with pressure, with purpose.

Waste is a wound. Discipline, a gift.

My voice echoes less than my deeds.

I ask no gods for Mars—only the strength to earn it.

In my labour, I honour the dust.
In my choices, I craft the future.

Let my breath outlast my name.