The mist quietly, softly, rests on her face
As she walks through the ravaged forest.
It still whispers to her,
Though the whispers fade.
The last of lasts, she rebukes her title.
Knights of the old, braves of the new,
They no longer bear her insignia.
She is but folklore now,
A reminder of tarnished treasure.
Her wayward compass guides her to forgotten crossroads,
Shrouded in darkness and hollow memories.
I wonder why she settles here?
Is it fear?
Is it acceptance?
Will her light bloom once more?
Or is a tempest raging inside her bruised heart?