Moonwrought Sovereign of the Ember Vale

In the haunted hush of Ember Vale, beneath a moon carved from ancestral flame, she stands—horned and haloed, sovereign of shadow and bloom. Her twin blades whisper the names of fallen stars, and her gaze holds the memory of kingdoms undone. With every step, she reclaims the forgotten rites, weaving power from ash, petal, and steel. This is no mere warrior—she is the myth reborn, the goddess unmasked, the keeper of twilight’s vow.

Beneath the moon’s unbroken eye,

She walks where ancient embers lie—

A sovereign stitched in petal flame,

Unfolding dusk with no true name.

Her horns are crowns of twilight’s grace,

Her blades recall the starfall’s face.

She carves through silence, soft and deep,

Where forest ghosts no longer sleep.

The castle sighs beyond the trees,

A relic caught in memory’s breeze.

She does not kneel, nor beg, nor bow—

She is the oath, the sacred vow.

Each step ignites the ash below,

A bloom of fire, soft and slow.

She dances war with woven breath,

And sings the lullaby of death.

The forest bends to mark her path,

Not out of fear, but ancient wrath.

She is the myth the moon once dreamed,

A tale too wild to be redeemed.

So let the night remember her—

The horned, the fierce, the conjurer.

She walks alone, yet never lost,

A sovereign born of flame and frost.

 

Done