The lines long broken, our men all fallen, as the mist gathers in its cloak, the souls of the dead. 
Crowns of iron, gold, and thorn. Rot they all in some gutter, not far from our trench, nor our dungeon.
Gloria regali. By day we fight, by night we struggle. Hunted, haunted.
When in the line of fire, it's logical to be hit, consequential to fall, and natural to bleed.
Then all that remains is the juggle between pain, shock, and numb. 



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