One chair. Empty. Waiting. No lord would touch it. No knight would dare. Carved for a name That had not yet been spoken. In Camelot The candles burned, The wine was poured, The banners turned Above the heads Of kings and men Who laughed And swore And fought again But there it stood. Silent. Still. The seat No mortal hand Could fill. Lancelot looked. Gawain turned away. Arthur watched the empty place At the closing of the day. No herald knew the hour. No prophet named the man. Only this: When he comes, The road begins. THE SIEGE PERILOUS. Not for strength. Not for fame. Not for blood Or ancient name. THE SIEGE PERILOUS. One seat. One soul. One judgment. Whole. Then the doors opened. No trumpet. No procession. No cry. A young knight entered Clothed in white. No boast upon his lips. No crest held high. He crossed the hall While every voice Fell still. He passed the crown. He passed the sword. He walked toward The empty chair. And sat. No thunder. No flame. Only letters Burning through the wood. GALAHAD. The table Was complete. The old order Was not. For beyond those walls A vessel waited. Beyond the forests, Beyond the wounds Beyond the pride of men. A light No king could command. A kingdom No sword could win. The chair had found its knight. The knight had found his road. And somewhere In the dark beyond Camelot... The Grail Was waiting.
