The Sovereign’s Reckoning

A mother’s dry and silent cry,

Twice she felt the weight of the fall;

May the heavens bless her weary soul,

For she claims she never wept—

Or so she told them all.

Twice she felt the sting of loss,

May she be twice-blessed in her pain;

Perhaps a tear escaped her eye,

Or perhaps her heart remained

Beneath a shroud of disdain.

She bore no simple hate for them,

Yet she took one life with her own hand;

She bore no simple hate for them,

Though one walked away across the sand.

The one who held her deepest trust

Inherited only the fire of her hate.

A pitiful soul was left to weep,

But the mother stood unmoving,

Armored against her fate.

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May she find a blessing yet,

Or offer one from her hollow chest;

If the stars grant her a second chance,

They will be the ones to cry at last,

And find no place to rest.

No devils are born in this gray land,

No ancient gods are truly real;

May destiny grant her the grace

To answer for that pitiful soul,

And make an end of those who cannot feel.

Wandering through the vast Between,

The lost ones go searching for her trace;

For while the fires of hate may die,

A mother’s guilt is a permanent thing,

That time can never erase.

May she find a blessing yet,

To hunt the ones who stole her past;

If she is given a single chance,

She will break the gods at last.

Soul, weary soul, give me your hand,

For I am the only one, perhaps,

Who understands you whole.