[Verse 1 – The “Prophecy”] They whisper of omens, they mutter of fate, “Thirteenth daughter, the world shall quake!” But thirteen times thirteen is nothing to boast, When your bloodline is endless and swollen with ghosts. A slip of a girl by Avayana years, Two centuries young and still wet with tears. Yet she struts like a matron, so lofty, so tall Her “destiny’s” vague, if it’s there at all. [Chorus 1 – Mocking Praise] Oh, Thirteenth Daughter, the stars all bend! (Or so you’ll tell it, again and again.) The ink is still wet, the tale’s half-spun, But prophecy’s sweet when you claim to be “the one.” [Verse 2 – The Privilege] The guild gave her tutors, a tower, a bed, A desk carved in marble, a book never read. She claims she has “earned it” through labor and strife, Though she’s never dug trenches nor wagered her life. She toys with the cosmos, with time and with name, Concepts and icons, it’s all just a game. The elders all smirk when she boasts what she’ll bring “Let the child play magician, she’s nothing but spring.” [Bridge – The Company] Yet see how she marches, all puffed and all proud, Among knights and thieves and the merciless loud. A band forged in fire, so the taverns all say, Though she’s mostly just keen to keep proving her way. [Chorus 2 – Troubadour’s Wink] Oh, Thirteenth Daughter, unravel the sky! You’ll conquer the stars, or at least you’ll try. So young, so eager, so fierce a sting While others just mutter, “she’s playing at king.” [Verse 3 – Her Restless Hunger] When the hunters sleep, when the warriors snore, She scribbles her sigils, she hungers for more. A bauble, a relic, some trinket of old She calls them her “destiny,” bright, brave, and bold. The ruins don’t care for her grand little quest, The gods stay indifferent, they know her at best. But she’ll write her name loud, till her ink pots run dry, Proving herself, though no one asked why. [Final Chorus – Bitter Irony] Oh, Thirteenth Daughter, prophecy’s child! Barely a fledgling, yet so beguiled. Your legacy’s vast, your truth still thin But every fool must start where they begin. [Outro – Troubadour’s Laugh] So drink to the girl with her head in the flame, She claims she’ll be legend, she might just be shame. And should her path ever sharpen its sting We’ll say, “Ah, yes, we knew her… before she was anything.”
