She emerges from the dark,
a glint of steel, a deadly spark,
in diamond eyes. Beware her gaze
is said to burn before it slays.
A crunch of bones beneath her heel
and she will crave her due.
Her hand now beckons you to kneel,
declaring that you're true to:
The Queens of Swords, Lady of the Blade.
Mistress of Truth and Pain.
The Queens of Swords, Lady of the Blade.
Avengers of the Sane,
the Queen of Swords.
The chiaroscuro of the night
obscures the mayhem of the fight.
A stench of wounds, a crimson flood
where boys turn men, baptized in blood.
Whispers of victory's rewards.
Pay homage to her lust
as iron sings its fatal chords,
warrior, obey and trust:
No looking back, I'm caught by the tide.
See my mirror's crack, from side to side.
Three strokes of duty to your land.
Your weapon sheathed in her hand.
Desire laid bare, clean, hard and crude.
Your manhood trapped in servitude.
As death descends, you lose your fear.
Her vassal you remain,
ever to workship and be near,
who made you come again
