Into The Moat - Century I lyrics

a slight flame whispers from emptiness not held in vain the god sits close at hand where seven children of the king are held the forebears will come forth from the depths of hell loathing to see those dead are the fruit of their line the gods are authors of a great dispute the moon is absorbed in deep bloom the one that stands in the darkness will grasp the blade in his greivance but he dies too soon and the war ends