///*****/// [Overture] In the scarred border between silver Sylvanya and smoke-crowned Oakhaven. centuries hang from the branches like rusted bells, and every wind tolls a different funeral. The old war enters on a drumbeat, but another rhythm waits beneath it. [Verse I] Elven roots are cut for human walls; human sons vanish beneath elven arrows; neither throne remembers the first grave. Steel gives every frightened answer the same hard voice, yet the ground receives the blood without asking which language named it. They carry the weight of orders and the quieter weight of doubt. Somewhere beyond the visible battle, a patient hand adjusts the board. [Pre-Chorus] The chronicler hears two peoples reciting inherited wounds until hatred sounds like prayer. If conscience is a wound, let it remain open until truth enters. [Chorus] Count the axes, count the years Name the children fed to fear When every banner claims the right Who will teach the dawn to unite? Count the axes, count the years Name the children fed to fear When every banner claims the right Who will teach the dawn to unite? [Verse II] Far inside the Whispering Forest, an old temple waits beneath ivy, keeping a truth older than both crowns. What seemed like chance reveals a door; what seemed like duty reveals a chain. Every remembered face becomes a witness standing wordlessly behind the choice. The future is not promised, only placed within reach of hands prepared to change. [Bridge] No god signed the order No river chose a side Only hands kept feeding fire While buried power opened its eyes Let the drums fall back and leave one naked heartbeat in the hall. Let the smallest act of mercy challenge every monumental lie. [Guitar Solo] Begin with the melodic color of centuries hang from the branches like rusted bells; climb through the tension of the chronicler hears two peoples reciting inherited wounds until hatred sounds like prayer; let two guitar voices disagree, listen, and finally discover a shared phrase. [Final Chorus] Count the axes, count the years Name the children fed to fear When every banner claims the right Who will teach the dawn to unite? We will not feed tomorrow with the ashes of today. Count the axes, count the years Name the children fed to fear When every banner claims the right Who will teach the dawn to unite? [Coda] Thunder gathers beyond the neutral trees Two patrols march toward the same red rain The forest closes every path behind them And history sharpens its listening [Echo] centuries hang from the branches like rusted bells, and every wind tolls a different funeral. [Inner Voice] The chronicler hears two peoples reciting inherited wounds until hatred sounds like prayer. [Narrative Turn] Far inside the Whispering Forest, an old temple waits beneath ivy, keeping a truth older than both crowns.
