On the mountain’s darkened slope, mist cloaks the night, A campfire blazes fierce, its flame burning bright. The princess grips her dagger, vengeance bites deep, The servant notches arrows, her glare cold and steep. The day widens slowly, iron clangs resound, From villages in ashes, thousands gather round. Peasants crave betrayal, slaves demand old scars repaid, All swear as one: avenge or die in shame, betrayed. Blood moon hangs heavy, wind gnaws to the bone, Hooves thunder closer through the blackened gorge alone. A figure staggers forth, armour caked with gore, Half-cracked helm awry, yet his eyes burn as before. “Princess...," his voice calm, her pupils shake wide, The knight kneels in silence, loyalty never died. She walks to him slowly, arms open in embrace, “You live… your oath I never once doubted, never misplaced.” The servant sheds tears, yet hatred still glows, The knight rises to her, old wounds in his voice: “I crawled from their mountain of corpses they made. For you, for the vow, for the life I have staked.” Before the towering fire, three hands clasp as one, A sharper oath is sworn beneath the blackened sun. “Tomorrow will bleed, the cup shall overflow.” Spirits rise like embers, tomorrow calm lies low.
