by Nick Gisburne
She brings a sword. She stole it from the night.
Her flesh defies the mist from which she came.
Her armour is the winter. She will fight
For those who feel the needle of her name.
She walks upon the embers of the dead.
They crackle as they crumble at her feet.
For her, the silent shadow, it is said
No misery can match a traitor’s meat.
She murders, not for worship, or reward.
No pain, no pleasure, flickers in her eyes.
The blood of those who stand against her sword
Means nothing. No deception. No disguise.
Whatever brought her shadow to this place,
It never saw the sorrow in her face.
