My king, my king, how was I supposed to know that
everyone will falter when you die.
And as we speak the army of our enemies
is approaching our gates, we cannot fly.
Behold, my son,
There's a way to save you all,
Don't you despair, don't be petrified.
There is an armor,
ancient magic made it strong,
And you shall wear it when you face the fight.
This harness will guide us through dangerous night,
It humbles the foe with its grace.
The thornmail will help us prevail and survive,
Our deadliest fate we embrace.
Well done, my son, it's the way to save you all,
but don't you think the realm's been purified.
Creatures of darkness are still longing for your fall,
Keep them in thrall, it's time to smite and ignite.
My king, my king, how was I supposed to know that
everyone will falter when you die.
Son, smite them all!