The banner we raised is a shroud in the wind, For the bonds of the brotherhood fractured and thinned. We bled in the trenches, we laughed in the hall, But silence was all that returned from my fall. Behind the dark visor, the iron was cold, Blind to the lies that your silence had told. I wore the heavy helm, trusting your sight, While you left me to rot in the dark of the night. We swore by the shield, and we swore by the blade, A fellowship forged in the charges we made. But glory is fickle, and memory short, And whispers run deep in the halls of the court. You closed the great gates as the enemy closed, Left out in the tempest, abandoned, exposed. Through the narrow eye-slits, I watched you retreat, The dust of your horses, the sting of defeat. I was the phantom you buried too fast, A shadow of honor you left in the past. But iron does not perish so easily in mud, And fields of betrayal bear harvests of blood. The bucket that blinded the truth from my eyes Now shields the grim face of your sudden demise. I am gathering the broken, the left-for-dead crew, The soldiers forgotten, discarded by you. We march under no king, we bear no old sign, Just the heavy, cold march of a shattering line. Look out from your ramparts, look down at the plain, The brother you traded is coming again. Not for the crown, nor the gold, nor the state— But to tear down the gates with the weight of our hate.
you left me to rot, now feel the consequences
