In valorous dawn, where shadows fade,
A hero rose, with heart unafraid.
He sought not throne nor jewelled crest,
But tranquil peace, a soul at rest.
With sword unsheathed, he faced the blight,
Shielding weak in morning light.
Cheers adorned his noble name,
A beacon born from battle flame.
Yet time, the thief with silent tread,
Laid ghostly fingers on the dead.
The scars he bore, though flesh would heal,
Cut deeper still than blade or steel.
A heart once pure, now bruised and worn,
By duty crushed, by silence torn.
He sought a breeze, a lover's grace,
Found naught but echoes in empty space.
The ones he saved turned blind their eyes,
Their praises lost in fleeting skies.
He bled for them, in dusk and dawn,
Yet found himself alone, withdrawn.
The weight of right, a titan's yoke,
Bent his spine until it broke.
His tears fell silent in the dust,
No hand to hold, no soul to trust.
So crept a shade upon his breast,
A whispered grief that stole his rest.
In darkness coiled his mounting grief—
A poison sweet, a harsh relief.
The world's acclaim, a brittle lie,
Turned to silence, none asked why.
A hollow crown, a fading light,
Replaced by pain and endless night.
He wandered far from glory's gate,
Through ruins wrought by love and hate.
The flame that once dispelled the shade
Now flickered low, then slowly swayed.
And in that gloom, he met the voice—
A subtle sound, a serpent's choice.
It spoke of power, wrath unchained,
Of justice through the soul profaned.
He donned the garb of villainy,
Clad not in chains, but prophecy.
In wrath refined, his will took flight—
The shade became his guiding light.
His name, once sung in sacred hymn,
Now trembled low, in halls grown dim.
A fable turned to whispered dread,
A tale of love and wrath now wed.
With every step, the land grew pale,
His presence marked by frost and gale.
Where once he healed with gentle hands,
Now kingdoms broke like brittle sands.
"Remember me," his silence said,
"When light has fled, and hope lies dead.
Recall the one who bore the flame—
Then turned to ash, bereft of name."
And still he strode through storm and strife,
A specter drawn from shattered life.
The stars looked down, both cold and wise,
Yet wept not once to hear his cries.
Empires crumbled at his glare,
And priests denied him in their prayer.
But in the hearts of orphaned night,
He found his hymns in blackened rite.
A paradox in sable hue,
A fallen god whom mortals knew.
He, who gave his all and bled,
Now lived where darker angels tread.
They called him cursed, a blight, a bane,
Yet none could cleanse his lasting stain.
The lore of heroes dimmed and died—
But his tale, scorched, immortalized.
For what are legends, fair and bright,
When none remain to guard their light?
The hero’s statue cracked and broke,
His tale retold in jest and joke.
But he, the villain, grave and grand,
Still haunted dreams across the land.
His name etched deep in scholar’s tome,
In blood and ruin, fire and loam.
The children shivered at his lore,
The elders swore they'd seen him soar.
He dwelled in myths, in haunted glades,
In weeping winds and warrior blades.
Though none laid wreath upon his grave,
His memory marched on, proud and brave.
Not loved—but known, not blessed—but feared,
His truth endured, though none revered.
So ends the tale of fractured soul,
Whose heart once bore the purest goal.
Betrayed, forsaken, turned to flame,
And born anew in wrath and shame.
Yet in that fire, a truth is spun—
The world forgets what good has done.
But never shall it lose the thread
Of those who rose in hate instead.
A thousand years, the bards shall sing,
Of how a hero lost his wing.
And in his fall, the earth did quake—
A villain rose the stars could break.
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