Chapter 5: The Ghost Who Roams

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When the moon shone silver on the spires, the ghost resolved to roam,

With a sense that he should go far afield to where the king’s family called home.

He drifted high through corridors, all wards he slipped past by,

Collecting hints from errant speech that men let fall nearby.

A mention of a hidden tomb, a swamp-lost temple’s spire,

A necromancer’s crypt called to the wretched dead with stygian desire.

He brought these tidings back at dawn, his voice with purpose laced,

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“Upon the marsh’s farthest rim, a fortress stands defaced.

I heard them speak of ritual, an army raised in gloom,

And whispered of a lich-lord’s will: to usher living doom.”

Eliwen sighed, determined still, “Then we must strike at once.

We’ll gather who remain unswayed by bribes or empty fronts.”

The knights who pledged to join this cause stood forth with silent vow,

In battered arms and tempered hearts, prepared for what must now

Unfold in crypt or temple vile, where necromancers lied,

Who proved to them again the truth that none in disgrace should die.

Aeron steeled himself that morn, glancing at Amelia in prayer,

He felt the Phoenix flame inside, no space left for despair.

The ghost observed with solemn grace: “I see your mortal drive,

And find it stirs my own lost soul, remembrance that I strive

To do what’s right, though drowned in storm, though hope once seemed undone.

I shall not rest ’til I have unraveled the plans this wretched lich has spun.”