The kingdom slept upon a peaceful time,
in generations safe and seasons fair,
but in the North, upon a colder clime,
an echo sounded round the haunted air.

A feather stirred before encroaching night,
its light near dead but bold as ember's glow.
The weeping moon shone down to gift her sight
on crimson chick; its seed as yet to sow.

As up above, a million stars acclaimed,
so dirt played host to one weak fledgling spark,
and with a teasing breeze, he was reflamed
in life and fate - a sun to warm the dark.

A raven found the chick at break of dawn
and stole away his mewling, shaking fire
to coddle in her nest devoid of spawn
denied by nature's ever-watchful ire.

She raised him out of fascination's will,
ensorcelled by his incandescent blaze,
and hid him from the hunters of his quill
that sought him out with hatred's stone cold gaze.

As adolescence burned into his wings,
his fire was bright as effervescent dreams.
Then one day, as the raven cut his strings,
his light devoured her life in scorching beams.

He rose upon the cinders of her nest,
emboldened by the passion of his flame,
and flew to be a scourge upon the rest
of life that birthed him weakened to defame.

He struck a chord across the ravaged lands;
a note of fear that burgeoned every night.
The populace would hide behind their hands
but nothing could protect them from his might.

The kingdom burned 'neath devastation's reign
until the king, his armies scorched and dead,
put out a call for mystics to arraign
the deadly beast, or just present its head.

A necromancer slunk into the court,
and with him slithered shadows black as death.
He claimed his wrath could conjure what they sought,
the price to be agreed in measured breath.

The king agreed, and sent his weapon forth
to slay the flaming beast with dark design.
The necromancer headed to the North;
a force of hate, the tool of the benign.

He found the nest, a grave in ashes made,
and summoned up his price to feed the slain,
then fed the spell with wasted serenade
he stole from royal blood to slake his pain.

A raven rose, immense and strong of wing,
unnatural essence burning cold as ice,
and poured into the night to kill and sing
of sadness and revenge's paradise.

The battle raged as light and darkness clashed,
as flame fought death and humble mankind hid,
until their ravaged forms gave out and crashed
into a feathered heap, as magic bid.

The necromancer laughed with wicked glee;
both birds were dead, to serve him evermore.
The kingdom cheered, believing they were free,
and wrote his name forever in their lore.

The ailing king looked out upon his court
of corpses robbed to feed a madman's plan
and wept upon the devastation bought
by desperation's fee; what fool is man.

And so an age of darkness did ensue,
all so humanity could say they learned
a lesson we must all remember true:
You can't snuff out the flame and not get burned.