The Living Tomb

The king he sat on stolen gold, his crown a serpent’s grin, He called for heroes one last time, to cleanse what lay within. A mine of bones, a mountain’s wound, where whispers filled the gloom, And down they went to meet their fate — beneath the Living Tomb. Ride on... through stone and flame, Their echoes cry the king’s own name. They fell where mercy never came — Beneath the Living Tomb. They found no gold, no cursed blade, no treasure from the deep, Just walls that closed and halls that groaned, like something half-asleep. The mountain shifted in the dark, its hunger old and cruel, And one by one the brave were crushed — for trusting in a fool. Ride on... through stone and flame, Their echoes cry the king’s own name. They fell where mercy never came — Beneath the Living Tomb. The lich stood firm as stone gave way, his friends were lost to screams, He tried to save what breath remained, but shattered were their dreams. He lived to see the last one fall, he lived to bear their doom, And rose again with death’s cold eyes — the fog became their tomb. “He felt their hearts fall silent there, The air too thick to breathe… And from their dust, he swore revenge, On every crown that leads.” Ride on... through death and flame, The fog still whispers each lost name. The world will never be the same— Since the Living Tomb. “No king will ever bury truth again… For the mountain still remembers.”