Sung in the streets of Delia and the taverns of Thelidor
He walks with salt upon his sleeve,
and prayers stitched into every breath.
No sword, no seal, no noble name—
yet kings lean close when he speaks of death.
He drinks with guards, he laughs with scribes,
he listens more than most recall.
And when the moon is high and kind,
he leaves his north star on the wall.
Some say he’s sent from a sea maiden fair,
a whisper wrapped in holy thread.
Some say he’s just a clever man
who speaks for those the crown forgets.But if you’re lost, or low, or young,
and wonder what the stars demand—
you’ll find him near the quiet tide,
with salt and mercy in his hand.