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When the sky's true path is lost to sight,
And the world is plunged into endless night,
The Flightless Seven, sundered and unseen,
Must be made whole by a hand that is clean.
The First, in the earth, a coiled serpent waits,
Where buried truths are sealed by ancient gates.
The Second, by waves that rage and weep,
A drowned song holds secrets buried deep.
The Third, a silent sentry on a peak of stone,
Guards its shard where the wind makes its moan.
The Fourth, in the shadow, a beast of ire,
Warms its heart in a forgotten fire.
The Fifth, by the forest, where silent beasts creep,
And slumbering eyes their solemn vigil keep.
The Sixth, in the city where ambition runs rife,
Held by a heart that knows no life.
The Last, concealed within a mirror of haze,
Reflects all ends and all unchosen ways.
Seven burdens to be borne by one,
And seven trials before the rising sun.
But beware the cost of a mended flight,
For the arrow that finds its mark can shatter the light.
