The Cold Moon Vigil

When the sun bows low, set your eyes upon the cold moon.

For on the longest night it climbs to heaven's crown. There, it turns.

And beyond the shattered gardens, Brenin Fawr draws near. The Great King, breaker of Eden, whose claws scattered embers through the gulf between stars.

Long has he walked the starless deep. The cold that rides before him rends and devours the sun's warmth.

At the Second Dawn, his shadow must unmake our skies once more.

Yet a hearth can endure in the roots of these mountains.

Fire that burned before forge-song, before iron-craft, before flame had a name. He sleeps in stone. The oath sworn at his kindling holds fast.

All roads lead to the Second Dawn. When the moon will turn and all is undone.

The Pendragon shall rise where the world breaks. His light given freely, that the men of Cymru be forged in blood and fire and song.

The people abide in the ruin of all else.

This the smiths have carried, hammer to hammer, since first the telling began.

When the deep flame calls from the mountain's heart, our lands will answer.