I recall the Days before the World turned cruel When two young Descendants had not yet thought to rule As these Seasons change it seems to me He sees not a Brother but an Enemy He has spoken of the Voice that directs him to rise It sings in his Ear and promises Ascension as his Prize Father is growing old amidst this strife I fear that my Brother is growing bold Factions are building and the turmoil is boiling Great gains can be made upon the pain of the people He has spoken of the Voice that directs him to rise It whispers in his Ear and promises Ascension as his Prize It was an unassuming August morn The Younger of two Brothers the last to be born Presumed upon himself my birthright Father was slain with a stolen Crown he cast me down The River has taken a turn and I must follow its Course I must seek the strength that lives in me He has spoken of the Voice that directs him to rise It whispers in his Ear and promises Ascension as his Prize