There drifts a tempest on the edge of sight,
like thunder yet to tremble, soft and sure -
a shadowed promise cloaked in whispers light,
a beacon born of storm and callous lore.

By nightfalla grace, beneath the calma charade,
the quiet hums of something fierce, concealed;
a flame unquenched, a hand yet to be stayed,
the mark of stars that wander unannealed.

And here, I stand, a vessel veined with ash,
adrift on fatea own rhythm, tethered, bound;
to skies that hint of fire yet to clash -
to forge, to mend, where greater hearts are found.

Penned by my hand on the 25th of Aeguary, in the year 960 AF.