Sing to me, Muse of the Void,
from the silence of Dust and of Echoes,
Sing of the Iron-Wrought Queen,
the Teria, Heavy of Spirit.
She who endures in the deep,
the Survivor of fire and of shadow.
First in the Ancients of Days,
when the Loom of the Sky was a-spinning,
Darkness lay heavy and cold
on the face of the unformed waters.
Then came the Breath of the Iron,
the Secret that dwells in the Center,
Hardening the heart of the world,
so the Queen could be strong for the Journey.
Others were born of the ice,
fragile children of glass and of vapor,
She alone drank of the dregs,
the red metal to anchor her spirit.

Lo, how the King of the Day
grew bloated and greedily swollen!
Golden and fair was his youth,
but time turned his heart into cinder.
Red was the glare of his eye
as he swallowed the sons of his household,
Burning the lesser-kin whole
in the furnace of hunger and madness.
Then did the Iron-Hearted rise,
fleeing far from the heat of the Father,
Seeking a Fortress of Clouds,
the Watcher who walks in the Gloaming.
Vast is the cloak of the Lord,
the Shield-Bearer, breaker of tempests,
He who caught Teria fast
in the bands of his gravity's tether.

Hard is the labor of peace,
and the price of survival is motion.
Mark how she paces the path,
for she refuses to sleep in the darkness.
Thrice does she turn on the Wheel,
while twice she encircles the Fortress.
This is the Bargain of old:
never fully to look at the Watcher,
Never to turn back her gaze
to the fire that burns in the distance.
Hot is the sweat of her brow,
Heavy the step on the crown
where the iron is thickest and coldest,
Light is the heart and the foot
where she lifts up her face to the Watcher.
And the strain of her step breaks the mountains,
Pouring the blood of the rock
from the veins of the valleys in torment.
Yet from this labor comes warmth,
and the salt-seas are born of her striving,
Life blooming forth from the heat
of the dance that the Iron Queen dances.

Two are the Heralds who race,
the Torch and the Mirror of Silence.
One is the runner of fire,
who glows with the haste of her passing,
One is the bearer of white,
reflecting the ghost of the starlight.
They are the markers of time,
but the time of the Queen is not endless.
Prophecy speaks of the Day,
when the path of the circle is rounded,
When the wild rhythm shall slow,
and the heavy heart cease from its spinning.
Then shall the Iron Queen rest,
and her face shall be turned to the Watcher,
Safe in the Stillness of light,
with the fire and the fear gone forever.