Upon the frozen, fateful ground,
stood Aranor, so still, so tall.
With Antherion raised, no fear was found,
his heart unshaken, hearing the call.
The winds did howl, the darkness swayed,
a song of doom, a warlike cry,
yet steadfast, firm, his fate he stayed,
his gaze unbroken toward the sky.
From heights unknown, through endless night,
Rajkal rode the beast of frost.
Its scream of death, a fearsome blight,
as through the storm its claws were tossed.
With icy breath and talons wide,
the dragon struck to end his stand,
but Aranor, with fate as guide,
held firm his soul, sword in hand.
Then time unspooled within his mind,
as echoes called from days before—
when he was Gabriel, lost and blind,
a common man and nothing more.
Yet fate had shaped his trials grim,
his fears, his doubts, the path he'd tread.
And now, as darkness fell on him,
he stood where only heroes bled.
The dragon fell with fury grim,
its shadow vast, its hunger wild.
But as it struck with rage so dim,
the heavens crowned their chosen child.
A blinding glow, a blade so bright,
Antherion burned with holy flame.
And in the clash of dark and light,
was born the legend of his name.