The night grows short, it barely lives, huddled in a little fort, the group barely breathes.
Attacked by many beasts, fights coming down to bare fists, fought for many days and nights, nothing replenishing their brave lights.
They rule undefeated, they all stand conceited, none will survive this day, when faith is burned away.
One died by the sword he was sworn to protect, another in a battle he couldn't direct, a drunken one killed by a wine and poison blend, and the rest died by my hand.
I spared no mercy to the ones who can see and think clearly, yet still committed to such a fallacy.
And now it is done, the day has won, the fort is crowded with corpses, surrounded by pens papers and roses.