The North Storm
By Moon Wolf

From the north in frozen night,
silently they came—
with golden trails, with burning fire,
and weapons none could tame.

At dawn they sought to chain the free,
to steal, to strike, to claim.
Yet one small flame they had not seen:
the gallant swords of Stepney’s name.

While enemies in slumber lay,
she moved as shadow moves—
cutting hearts in silence deep,
unseen by all she slew.

She stole their strength, their sight, their breath,
and bound their will in fear.
Then left them broken, blind, and bent—
a crimson ruin near.

And as the storm fell still at last,
she vanished from the fight,
a whisper lost, a ghost of steel,
dissolving into night.