Oh Mhaldor, where your storms once roared,
Now whispers of fear cling to every sword.
A single name, one shadow, one sound,
And to its echo, your devotion is bound.

See how they gather, these keepers of sin,
Four quills united, yet trembling within.
A fallen knight, barely knowing his script,
Yet your obsession with him cannot be eclipsed.

He strides not through your halls, yet there he remains,
In every thought, in the depths of your brains.
He walks unbidden in each whispered breath,
A figure of life, yet you worship like death.

You say you endure, with Malice your guide,
But truth cuts deeper: you run, then you hide.
Each step he takes, your city retreats,
Until you muster your throng in uneven feats.

Not one, not two, but a legion of might,
It takes to unseat him, to chase off your fright.
And here, on this board, you replay the same,
Four voices rising to curse his name.

But cursing, I see, is not what you do,
Your every word is worship, true.
For what else is obsession but reverent praise,
When even his absence consumes your days?

Call him dishonoured, call him a jest,
Yet he lives in your mind, an unwelcome guest.
In war, now poems, his presence commands,
While your strength is scattered like loosened sands.

Oh Mhaldor, your sin was once your crown,
Now a shroud of fear draped all around.
For the Spear's shadow looms large and near,
And what you call hatred is worship sincere.

Penned by my hand on the 17th of Valnuary, in the year 966 AF.