The Song of the Flame’s End

A Faefall Ballad, reconstructed from early TRA fragments

Collected from bardic traditions of Ix and the northern trade roads. Verses vary by region. The refrain is consistent across most known versions.

I. The World That Would Not Hold Them

When the Guardian rose and the fracture was sealed,

When temples were mended and banners were healed,

When dawn broke clean over ruin and scar,

And the old gods reclaimed what had wandered too far—

There stood at the edge of the settling flame

Two souls who no longer belonged to its name.

The world had been righted, its wound stitched closed,

But not every heart may rest when fate is imposed.

The sorcerer looked to the reddening sky.

The succubus watched as the white stars burned high.

The age had turned; the reckoning done—

Yet their exile had only begun.

II. The Choice

They spoke not of glory, nor debt, nor acclaim.

No hymn was raised to remember their name.

The cities rejoiced; the bells were rung—

But silence gathered where they stood young.

“The world will not hold us,” the sorcerer said.

“The fire that once warmed now kindles dread.

If I remain, you fade to ash.

If you remain, the faithful clash.”

The succubus smiled, though her eyes were dim.

“I was born of a realm that is not kind to him.

But I will not walk it alone once more.

If I return, you cross that door.”

The choice was not shouted.

The vow was not sworn.

They turned from the sunrise

And walked toward the thorn.

III. The Crossing

Beyond the hills where the veil grows thin,

Where heat is breath and shadow is skin,

They found the place where the flame bends low

And the undercurrents of power flow.

No host of angels barred the way.

No demon rose their path to sway.

Only the hush of the waiting seam

Where mortal ends and infernal gleam.

And thus the sorcerer and the succubus passed beyond the veil of flame, hand in hand, where angels fear to tread.

The fire did not seize them.

The gate did not close.

The air tasted bitter

As the red wind rose.

They did not look back.

IV. One of Blood, One of Starlight

In the wastes where citadels crack,

Where empires of cruelty never look back,

Two strangers came who would not bow

To iron decree or infernal vow.

One bore blood like a banner of birth,

Marked by the heat of a darker earth.

One bore starlight beneath mortal skin,

Bright as the first of the old world’s din.

They built no throne.

They raised no crown.

They carved a haven

From ashen ground.

Some call it folly.

Some call it pride.

Some say they perished

Side by side.

Yet in the courts where the cruel convene,

There lingers rumor of what has been seen:

A hollow in ruin, a breach in decree,

A refuge not meant by Hell to be.

V. The Laughter on the Wind

When the stars burn red and the air is still,

When frost clings sharp to vale and hill,

Some swear they hear across the plain

A sound not forged of grief or pain.

Not the cry of the damned below,

Not the hymn of the heavens’ glow,

But laughter — faint, defiant, clear —

Carried where only the bold draw near.

They say it drifts from beyond the seam,

From the place between the ash and gleam.

Two voices woven, flame and breath,

Mocking the ancient laws of death.

Closing Refrain (Common in Ix)

So sing of the flame that would not remain,

Of love that chose exile over chain.

Not all who pass through fire are lost—

Some build a home at any cost.