In the pallid bloom, the traitor’s hand shakes,
A name unspoken, a fate unwound,
In the house of silent gods, her veil forsakes,
Yet the Sleeper does not sleep, and his wrath is crowned.
By silver blade and midnight oath,
The curse takes root in the unborn breath,
He who walks before his shadow,
A child of days, a man of moments,
Golden-eyed, untethered by time’s cruel tether.
He shall rise before he crawls,
Speak before he weeps,
Age as the sun upon winter’s frost,
Wither ere the world knows his name.
Yet when the crimson moon bleeds upon the earth,
And night is ruled by borrowed fire,
The traitor’s path is set in stone,
And fate is sealed in ash and pyre.
Beyond the waking world,
A path unseen, a realm unmeasured,
Where the dreamer drifts and the ageless dwell,
Only there may he find his years unbroken,
Only there may his tale be told beyond the dust.
When the Sentinel’s eye turns westward,
And the flower wilts in hands once faithful,
The Key shall tremble at the threshold,
For the Dreamlands await.