In golden years when skies were wide, And sun and twilight walked side by side, The Empress ruled with steady flame— And every child was taught her name.* The Sun Lions watched the throne with pride, They chased off lies, they walked beside. They leapt through dreams, they guarded roads, They whispered truth in silent codes. The fields were full, the markets bright, The stars came out with songs each night. The twilight glowed, the sunlands thrived, And even sorrow stepped aside. But peace, she knew, must hold its thread— For old things stir though long thought dead. And so she climbed a mountain steep, Where winds blow secrets none dare keep. There in a vault of quiet stone, Three Scion Blades were set alone. The first was dark with silver flame— The Twilight Blade, forged without name. The second burned in phoenix hue— A blade of flame, both old and true. They called it The Phoenix Blade in lore, "Hope that guards from death," and more. The third was cold, and cloaked in doubt. Its edge was sharp. Its truth cut out. She touched it not, nor spoke its sound, But left it sleeping in the ground. She bore her blade through years of light, And ruled with heart, and lion-sight. The Twilight Blade she gave in trust— To dusk’s new lord, both fair and just. But time, like mist, will rise and run. The moon will cool what warms the sun. And when at last she passed from throne, The Phoenix Blade was not alone. It burned once more in younger hands— A sign of hope across the lands. Yet some still ask, beyond the breath: "What sleeps beneath, untouched by death?" The lions prowl from tor to glade, Still watching where the third blade laid. And though her name is sung with grace— A shadow stirs in time’s embrace. So if you dream of peace that stays, Then honor well the Empress’ ways. And whisper soft beneath your breath: “Hope guards the world from coming death.”
