The night was silent, yet radiant and profound,
As rare celestial bodies in alignment were found.
Comets streaked, and the auroras danced with glee,
For a child of legend had come to be.
In the kingdom’s heart, where rivers meet the sea,
The oracle, with eyes of eternity, spoke the decree:
“This child bears a weight, a fate yet unwound,
To save or to shatter, to heal or confound.”
With golden locks, and eyes deep as the night,
Lysander’s presence was both concern and delight.
In his laughter, there was the music of the spheres,
Yet in his silence, the weight of unspoken dark fears.
As the kingdom celebrated, shadows began to churn,
For the wheels of destiny had started to turn.
At the kingdom’s edge, where light met obsidian hue,
Lay the Forbidden Forest, a realm few dare knew.
Its legends whispered of spirits, ancient and vast,
Holding tales of the future and echoes of the past.
Little Lysander, his heart of wanderlust,
Ventured into the woods, with a child’s bright trust.
Beyond the thorns, the canopy’s protective embrace,
He met an ancient spirit, devoid of time or place.
With eyes like the cosmos, and a voice soft as mist,
The spirit offered a token, impossible to resist:
A pendant, shimmering, reflecting the spirit’s grace,
Glowing with truth but darkening at a liar’s face.
“Little one,” it whispered, “you are destined to see,
The many facets of truth, what is and what might be.
This pendant shall be your guide, both night and day,
Illuminating the just path, keeping shadows at bay.”
Returning home, his adventure no soul did he tell,
Yet the pendant’s luminescence some could foretell.
It became his compass, his heart’s resolute guide,
As Lysander grew with destiny by his side.
From the eastern lands, where no sunlight would tread,
The Shadow Warlock, a tyrant of darkness and dread,
With eyes of ember and a heart forged from cold,
Sought Lysander for the prophecy he’d been told.
His legions, like a storm, surged forth with intent,
Their shadows blurring the lines where light once went.
The kingdom, unprepared, could barely resist,
As night’s chilling fingers began to persist.
Lysander’s pendant, amidst the bleak, foul air,
Dimmed to a flicker, like breath beneath despair.
Yet within its wearer’s heart, a flame began to grow,
A courage unyielding, a defiant, fiery glow.
The city’s walls trembled, its defences nearly breached,
The hope of its people seemed beyond truth’s reach.
But as darkness encroached, and all seemed lost,
A rallying cry was heard, and valour was its thirst.
