In the macabre gloaming of the tumultuous sky, sins of the past stir for you, oh gentle Libra. Your innate harmony teeters on the serrated edge of a phantom’s blade, whispered secrets of betrayal and cruel intentions swaddled in the murky folds of the cloak of oblivion. The scales of justice, your faithful symbol, quiver as the unholy weight of your deeds past mount, casting their dire shadows upon the path that trembles beneath your guilt-ridden stride.

Beware, for the spectral hand of retribution extends from the gloomy abyss, its chilling touch seeking your warm heart. Confrontations and unrest beckon, stirred by the malign fingers of the spectral hand. Your proclivity for peace will be challenged, as every insidious secret shall unfold, and silver-tongued charm give way to a tongue made of cutting obsidian. Redemption may yet dwell in the lamenting, banshee cries of remorse, but heed not the sirens’ song of denial. Only courage may guide you through this dance with the macabre, in the lamenting embrace of this horrifyingly uncertain twilight.