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Next to looming night
Lie shires of might,
Domain of stone and ore
We sing in tale and folk-lore.

Stronghold of glory,
Now worn and weary;
Ailing in decline
In wait for decisive sign.

Near the poisonous dell
They border dark and hell.
There, where billowing ashes choke,
Hatred stirred and then awoke.

Wraiths infest and haunt
The City foes shall never daunt;
Avoid the path leading east,
In the midst of lesser and least.

Pray, the White Tree is not to wither,
Now and on, here and hither.
Across the peak a friend will answer
When shadows crawl and grow much denser.

Reborn and back am I!
As woe betides and doom gets nigh.
Clothed anew with flesh and guise,
To aid the strayed and dispel lies.

Behold the new head of the Order,
Bound eastward, past the border;
An ailing shire awaits comfort
From vile spirits that truth distort.

A potent staff shall serve me well
By conjuring marvel and spell,
For any foe to fear
And amok quickly rear.

Hurry, I must fly swift across griefs
Passing anguish, pains and wrong beliefs.
If I succeed, a weary king shall rise again
To slay the wolf in his very den.

If I be to fail,
Squires will fate bewail
And kneel before a crown
Made of skulls and flames, far deep down.