Enemy lines form;
Heavy mobs grouped together.
The Witch speaks;
The Language only appeals to rabbles.
The boy draws his sword;
Metal gleams long and blue.
Trembles kept inside;
He musters up courage for his first battle.
Barely an adult;
Crooked armor tells.
In his veins the vigor of ancient kings;
The Stallion knows.
Seconds pass by, what seemed to have been days.
He charges forward with a cry.
Metallic clangs echo shrill;
And friends fall nearby.
Blood forms a river
And bodies a mountain.
He smells death;
Her swordtip on his very throat.
Faraway the Lion roars.
He leaps on the Witch.
Victory to the amazed;
Defeat to the terrified.
From his mane, the sea of gold
A crown is born.
He lifts up his king;
The Royal rises with new strength.
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