In the castle of the king chosen by the god,
The fallen king in slumber lies alone,
His dreams of dominion caught in stone,
Held from death by the power in his blood.
And therein, the king's sons watch on high,
Guardians of their father's keep,
As shadows rise from the deep,
Scent their prey and then draw nigh.
In the castle, the queen who cannot watch
Waits and re-reads her dreams of blood,
Fears a future of storm and flood,
Hopes for the freedom of her young hawks.
Before the dawn, the warlord's daughter wakes,
Shakes off the torpor of true dreaming,
Wonders what is real and what is seeming,
Looks into her mirror and then waits.
In the morning, light awakens the nine.
Moments caught in mirrors slowly die.
An angel opens a pale and fiery eye,
Deals his cards and casts them for a sign.
Far off, a dark and angry god is born.
In Amber, cold rain in warm air falls,
and taps the leaves that climb the walls,
And raises a fog for the morn.