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Stone walls echo chants of old,

Stained glass whispers tales of might.

Incense fumes choke the air, cold.

The crown awaits, bathed in pale moonlight.

Whispers of duty, an infinite of scopes.

Longest of lives before the serpent sting.

Fragile fingers will clasp a gilded sword.

A future carved in crimson, a silent spoken word:

King.