Told from Morrigan’s point of view. Lyrical, sorrowful, protective.
They buried him where the roots run deep,
beneath a sky that would not speak.
No stone, no name, no parting word
just silence where the storm once stirred.
But we are not gods,
nor men who flee.
We are wolves,
and wolves still see.
I smelled his blood.
I heard his cry.
I knew the truth,
he did not die.
They called him beast,
then cast him low
but ash does not forget the glow.
So we dug with fang,
with heart, with howl,
we marked the traitors, bone and soul.
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