For the Kings of Upon the hills, where the wind does sigh,

And the echoes of ancient battles fly,

Forfeit Rights Legends are born in the twilight's gleam,
In Forfeit Rights, where reality and myth
convene.
In a kingdom lost to time's embrace,
Where shadows dance with whispered grace,
Beneath the surface, in caverns deep,
Lies Forfeit Rights, in realms unknown,
Where secrets lie, in silent sleep,
Where secrets linger, deeply sown.
A darkness stirs, a whispered breath,
In the depths of Forfeit Rights, where shadows'
Beneath the gaze of moonlit skies,
embrace is death.
A blacksmith toils, with steadfast eyes,
His hammer sings a rhythmic tune,
In the castle's halls, where torches flicker,
In the heart of night, beneath the moon.
Lysander's footsteps echo, bold and quicker,
To the throne room, where the king awaits,
Lysander, the smith, with hands of might,
His presence is commanding, beyond all debates.
Unknowing yet of his destined flight,
In Forfeit Rights, where kings conspire,
Before the ruler, Lysander stands,
His fate awaits, in shadows dire.
His hands calloused from his forge's brands,
But in his eyes, a spark ignites,
Through misty veil and ancient stone,
As the king beckons him, to share his sights.
A tale unfolds, with destiny's tone,
In Forfeit Rights, where legends soar,
"Blacksmith," the king speaks, his voice profound,
Lysander's journey, forevermore.
"In Forfeit Rights, true strength is found.
Craft for me a blade, unmatched in might,
In the castle keep, where banners wave,
To pierce the darkness, to conquer the night."
A king sits upon his throne, so brave,
His crown adorned with jewels of might,
Lysander bows, with a steady gaze,
Yet burdened by shadows, hidden from sight.
His heart alight with a forge's blaze,
"I shall forge a weapon, forged with care,
Within the forests, where whispers roam,
To serve your kingdom, beyond compare."
Ancient trees guard secrets, silent as loam,
Their branches stretch, to touch the sky,
Back to his forge, Lysander returns,
Watching o'er the land, with a timeless eye.
With hammer and anvil, his spirit burns,
For the king's decree, a task so grand,
Through winding alleys, where beggars plead,
To craft a weapon, to rule the land.
And merchants barter for their every need,
The heartbeat of Forfeit Rights, alive and strong,
Days turn to nights, and nights to days,
In the bustling streets, where dreams belong.
As Lysander works, in a fiery blaze,
Each strike of hammer, each quenching flame,
Bears witness to a blacksmith's name.
In the castle's halls, the king awaits,
As Lysander arrives, with his forged fate,
A blade of power, gleaming bright,
To defend Forfeit Rights, in the darkest night.
In the palace chambers, where shadows creep,
A jealous prince, his anger steep,
Envies the blade, with its radiant sheen,
His heart was consumed by envy's keen.
"Father," the prince cries, his voice a plea,
"Why does the blacksmith hold the key?
That blade should be mine, to wield with might,
To rule this kingdom, in my own right."
But the king, wise and resolute,
Knows the prince's heart, filled with greed's
pursuit,
"The blade," he decrees, his tone severe,
"Is forged for honour, not for fear."
Yet the prince's envy, a flame untamed,
Burns brighter still, his ambition unclaimed,
In the depths of night, he plots his scheme,
To seize the blade, fulfil his dream.
Through shadows deep, the prince does tread,
To Lysander's forge, where the blade is bred,
But as he reaches out, to claim the prize,
The blade recoils, with a fiery guise.
For only the king, and Lysander true,
May wield the blade, with strength imbued,
The prince's heart, with darkness weighed,
Finds no solace, in the blade's forbade.
For Kings of Forfeit Rights
With a cry of rage, the prince retreats,
Defeated by fate, his envy's defeat,
While Lysander stands, with the blade in hand,
Protector of Forfeit Rights, in the kingdom's
land.
In the castle's halls, where banners fly,
Lysander kneels, with a humble sigh,
For the king's trust, in his hands he holds,
The blade of destiny, in stories untold.
Through the castle gates, rides a knight so
grand,
With tales of valor, across the land,
A hero of legend, with deeds renowned,
To Forfeit Rights, his journey's crowned.
With a gleam in his eye, and a heart so
bold,
He seeks the blade, with stories untold,
But as he reaches out, with a warrior's
might,
The blade remains still, in the fading light.
Confusion clouds the knight's noble brow,
As he tries in vain, to lift it now,
For the sword of power, though it calls his
name,
Remains unmoved, in silence and shame.
With tears in his eyes, the knight does
kneel,
Before the king and Lysander's steel,
"For what purpose," he asks, his voice a
plea,
"Does this blade choose not to follow me?"
The king, with sadness, shakes his head,
"Only those deemed worthy," he solemnly
said,
"May wield this blade, with strength and
grace,
2
For Forfeit Rights, it guards its place."

The knight, with heart heavy, bows his head

low,
His dreams shattered, his spirit in woe,
But in Lysander's eyes, a flicker of light,
A silent understanding, in the quiet of night.

For in the forge's fire, and the anvil's ring,

Lies the truth of worth, in the heart of a king,
And as the knight departs, with a heavy
sigh,
Lysander watches him go, with a tear in his
eye.

For Kings of Forfeit Rights 3