In the realm where embers danced and skies were ever red,
Where mountains bled with molten song and ash was all they tread,
There rose a lord of living flame, with eyes like searing coal,
A crown of fire upon his brow, and fury in his soul.
He ruled not with a gentle hand, nor tempered hearth or light,
But with a blaze that knew no end, that scorched both wrong and right.
He sang the sun into the sky, he tore the stars in two,
And whispered heat to newborn worlds until their hearts burned through.
Yet power, like a ravenous blaze, consumes its master’s name,
And kingdoms built of cinder fall as swiftly as they came.
The fires spread past rightful bounds, the balance broke and screamed—
And other lords with tempests armed rose up from fractured dreams.
They struck him down with storm and stone, with wave and sky-born gale,
Till even wrath incarnate dimmed, his roaring voice grown pale.
His crown fell silent in the coals, his halls were drowned in night,
And all the planes drew in one breath, their grief too vast for light.
But from the ash, the whisper came—no scorn, no wrath, no sword—
A voice of wind, of rock, of wave: the Mother of Accord.
She spoke not doom, but offered path, where none had dared to tread—
Not death for fire, but mortal breath, to walk the path instead.
So burned-out spark was gently caught and cradled in the clay,
Bound to fur and fang and field, where flame must learn to stay.
No name remains of who he was, no crown, no fiery throne—
But in his eyes, a glint survives, of things once lost… now grown.
So sing, ye priests, of balance held, and flame that chose to bend.
Of fury taught to feed the hearth, and wrath that found its end.
Let stone remember, sky forgive, and tide in silence keep—
For even fire, when taught to love, may earn the right to sleep.