The Shield of the Forgotten

The Shield of the Forgotten

Hands carve sigils into the empty air,
shaping light from the dark unseen.
The sky is thick with fire,
the earth split wide where steel has screamed,
yet he does not flinch, does not bow,
though the void itself has schemed.

Forged from whispers of the ancients,
from the weight of the buried earth,
each symbol hums, each letter sings,
bound in fire and sacred script.
It meets the barrier, shatters in sparks,
a curse cut short, a stolen breath.

It collides, recoils, breaks apart,
turned to dust before the climb.
Still, they come, with claws and steel,
with hunger thick in hollow eyes.
For this is not just magic wrought,
not just power’s fleeting thread.

This is the will of every soul who fell before but never fled.
Of all who fought, of all who bled,
who faced the dark and stood alone.

So let the war cry sound again,
let the storm of ruin rise.
The shield will stand, a testament,
against the dark, against the lies.
The sorcerer will lower his hands
and walk beyond the battlefield’s door.