Halion, born of ash and thread,
Was bound in chains before he bled.
A hero not by birth or right,
But by the way he bore his fight.
He slew no beast, he claimed no throne,
He walked the world entirely alone.
Yet every village knew his name—
Not for his sword, but for his flame.
He lit the fires in darkest caves,
He sang to children born of slaves.
And when he died, the stars grew dim—
For even gods had wept for him.