hymn of exiles

I. The Accusation

They call us mad, they call us cursed,
"Apostates!" hiss the temple throngs,
"Rebels!" the fat priests spit,
Their jowls aquiver with righteous dread.

For we will not bow to their painted gods—
Gold-leaf idols with hollow eyes,
Stale smoke clinging to rotting silk,
Their altars slick with bribes and lies.

II. The Stench of Sanctity

Their temples reek of incense and decay,
A sweetened rot, a perfumed grave,
Where coin buys grace, and truth is sold
To the highest bidder’s trembling hand.

Their priests chant empty words to dying fires,
Dead tongues mumbling dead commands,
While we—we—hear the wind’s old voice,
The crackling spark no chain can hold.

III. The Unbroken Flame

But we—we keep the old flame alive,
Not in vaults, not in gilded books,
But in the blood, the shout, the blade,
The wildfire no man dares to tame!

The wild song, the untamed heart!
Hear it roar in the exile’s breast!
Not hymned in pews, but howled in storms,
Where cliffs meet sea, and kings are dust.

IV. The Storm-Riders

Let them rot in their gilded cages,
Pacing their shrines like fattened hounds,
While we—we take the wolf’s path,
Where the sky is black, and the earth is loud.

For we ride the storm, unchained!
No master’s hand upon our reins,
No god but the wind’s own cry,
No law but the lightning’s strike!

V. The Last Verse (Unwritten)

Their edicts crumble, brittle as bone,
Their seals melt in the forge of storms.
The flame does not kneel, the wind does not yield—
It roars, it races, it never rests.

Let the scribes fret and the judges rage,
Their words are ash upon our tongues.
The exiles’ hymn has no last page—
It burns. It flies. It is never done.

VI. The Betrayal

A knife in the dark—a brother’s hand,
Once sworn in blood, now bought with gold.
The priests’ gleam in his hollow eyes,
Their whispers coiled where honour stood.

We trusted, we feasted, we drank deep—
Now the hearth-fire gutters, the watchman sleeps.
The temple’s hounds bay at our heels,
Their teeth wet with the traitor’s kiss.

VII. The Trial (In Absentia)

They name us thieves, they name us damned,
Their verdicts scrawled in stolen ink.
No witness left to speak our names,
No voice but ours to howl the truth.

Let them damn us! Let them lie!
Their courts are traps, their laws are chains.
We stand where no gavel falls—
Where the cliff’s edge greets the sky.

VIII. The Peril (The Siege of Black Hollow)

Five nights starved in the raven’s keep,
Walls of stone, walls of teeth.
The priests’ men chant beyond the gate,
Their torches hungry for our flesh.

No surrender. No last plea.
We sharpened our hate on the jailer’s bones.
When the storm broke, so did they—
Their holy banners trampled in mud.

IX. The Reckoning (The Burning of White Spire)

We took their towers, we took their pride,
Their gilded saints melted to slag.
The fat priests fled on trembling legs,
Their robes aflame, their curses ash.

No mercy. No quarter given.
The wildfire knows no master’s name.
We wrote our justice in burning script,
Their holy books lit our way home.

X. The Resolution (The Exiles’ Throne)

Now let them whisper, let them scheme—
Their power’s a corpse, their gods are dust.
We rule where their temples once stood,
Our banners the storm, our crown the wind.

No more hymns to dead men’s fears,
No more chains on the free man’s throat.
The last verse? It’s ours to write—
In blood, in steel, in unbroken light.