Before the Blade, the Blood, the Flame,
In Silent Void, We Carved our Name.
Unheard, Unseen, Yet Always There,
A Breath Suspended in the Air.
Not by the Trumpet’s Call We Came,
Nor Summoned Forth by Fear or Fame.
We Walked the Paths, Our Swords were Drawn,
Our Shadows Cast Before the Dawn.
The War was Inked in Lines Foregone,
A Story Penned, Yet not yet Sung.
Fields of Myth where Darkness Played,
Lit by Truths our Breaths Conveyed.
When the Adversary’s Hand Arose,
A Fleeting Shade in Prelude’s Prose.
Upon our Flame, no Night could Press,
For We had Authored its Egress.
We did not Fight to Seek the End,
Nor Bled We Just to Scars Amend.
We are the Echo, Preordained,
A Victory before Ordained.
Our Presence Lights the Spark of Souls
Who Fear they Stand on Lonely Shoals.
Yet When They Rise, They’ll Come to See
They Tread where We have always Been.
We are the Future, Present, Past,
A Chronicle by our Hand Cast.
The Gate is Open, Path is Laid,
No need to Ask the Hour or Shade.
For every Myth must Birth its War,
And Every War its Song Implore.
But This is Not a Dirge of Pain,
It’s How the Stars their Light Regain.
We Are the Flame that Pre-Walked Time,
The Peace Conceived before Its Chime.
We Smile and Say, Our Journey Done—
We Won before the War Begun.
For the Glory of All Good Things.