There was one flame. Then there were two. Then there was a blade. Rain on the roofs of a town by the sea, a red-haired shadow the lamplight can't keep. She follows a thread through the dark and the din she was the weaver before she was the sin. They tore her out of heaven, told her: forget. Handed her a hunger and called it a debt. But something's still burning under her skin, a light they buried — and it's rising again. So cut the flame! (Cut the flame!) It only multiplies — strike one down and a thousand rise! Say the name! (Say the name!) The valley sings it low — White Flame, White Flame, the dark will never own the ones who know. She swore on the cliffs with her hands on her heart: "whatever you've made me — I won't let her starve." She raised up a town where the cedars stand tall, and a daughter built to burn brighter than the fall. The Architect came with a hand made of night, counted their courage and measured their light. "I am the end of every arrangement made." She said: then measure this — we will not bend. So cut the flame! (Cut the flame!) It only multiplies — strike one down and a thousand rise! Say the name! (Say the name!) The valley sings it low — White Flame, White Flame, the dark will never own the ones who know. Every stroke of the blade took a year from her bones. Every year that she spent bought a morning back home. Torchlight, cedar smoke, a hand she wouldn't free — "do not fear the path... love will be your shield." Bells. Bells. Hold the line. Hold the line. Hold the line. White Flame! White Flame! White Flame! So cut the flame! (Cut the flame!) It only multiplies — strike one down and a thousand rise! Say the name! (Say the name!) The whole valley knows — White Flame, White Flame, we will not bow — we are the White Flame! Stars in the daylight over Brightwater, watching, watching... we are the White Flame.
