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Long ago, and farther still than memory,
There stood a land called Caldera,
Ringed by stone and wind and salt,
Held together by oaths half-kept
And walls grown tired of standing.
Sing, oh sing, of Caldera,
Where the earth was rich and the people were weary,
Where crowns were heavy and promises heavier,
And fate walked quietly, waiting.
For it is said — and always has been said —
That when a kingdom bends too far,
When mortar cracks and voices fail,
Three shall come to mend or break it:
A Soldier, forged of iron and will.
A Poet, bright with dangerous hope.
And a King, crowned not in gold alone,
But in thorns drawn close to the skin.
Sing this softly.
This is not a tale of glory.
It is a tale of staying.
From the Iron Vale she came,
Boots worn thin by long roads,
Sword reforged so many times
It remembered more hands than names.
Sing of Calliope, the Soldier,
Who knelt only to bind wounds,
Who bowed only to lift the fallen,
Who believed the world was held together
By those who showed up and did not leave.
She came unbidden to the High Court,
Stood before pillars older than kings,
And spoke as soldiers do —
Plainly, sharply, without apology.
“Your walls are rotting,” she said.
“Your people are bleeding.
And your silence is killing them.”
Oh, how the courtiers bristled.
Oh, how the banners trembled.
But the Soldier did not.
Sing, oh sing, of the Soldier,
Whose sword was not raised for conquest,
But for defense,
For holding the line
When all else fell away.
And then — as dawn follows night —
There came another, lighter of step,
With ink on her fingers
And hope like a wound in her chest.
Sing of Arizona, the Poet,
Who carried no blade but words,
Who believed that stories
Could stitch broken things together.
She sang of children healed,
Of winters ending,
Of pain endured and transformed.
Her voice did not shout.
It invited.
And those who listened found themselves
Leaning closer,
As if warmth might spill from the sound itself.
Sing, oh sing, of the Poet,
Whose faith in light was fierce,
Whose hope burned bright enough
To blind her — at times —
To the dark it cast behind her.
The Soldier listened.
And did not yet know
That this soft-voiced woman
Would one day be the wound she guarded most closely.
Upon the throne sat Mark,
Crowned young and crowned unwilling,
A smile for the people,
A thorn for every doubt.
Sing of the King,
Who ruled with charm and laughter,
Who hid grief behind indulgence,
Who feared stillness more than war.
His father’s shadow loomed long,
And the crown bit deep into his brow,
Drawing blood only he could feel.
Yet when the Soldier spoke truth
And the Poet spoke meaning,
The King listened.
For he knew — though he would not say it —
That strength without purpose
And hope without action
Would both undo his realm.
Sing, oh sing, of the King,
Who gathered them not as ornaments,
But as pillars,
And set the prophecy walking.
Sing now, more softly.
In olive gardens and narrow halls,
The Soldier and the Poet sat side by side.
One spoke of walls rebuilt stronger,
Of hands blistered by work.
The other spoke of why walls mattered,
Of hearts sheltered within.
They did not name what grew between them.
Fairytales never do — not at first.
But love, like a seed,
Does not ask permission.
Sing of hands brushing.
Of glances held too long.
Of laughter shared when no one listened.
Sing of a love
Neither conquest nor prize,
But shelter.
Oh, hush now.
For the song darkens here.
Sing of Eirene, the eastern city,
Beloved and brave,
Whose gates held — until they did not.
The enemy came at night.
Fire answered dawn.
The Soldier fought.
The Poet healed.
The King sent aid — too late.
Sing of smoke rising like prayer unanswered.
Sing of blame creeping through marble halls.
The Soldier’s voice grew hard.
The Poet’s hope rang too bright,
As if louder light could banish shadow.
And words — once gentle —
Became knives.
Sing of love turned sharp,
Of fear dressed as faith,
Of strength mistaken for cruelty.
Sing, oh sing,
For this is where the wound is made.
Hear this clearly, child of the song.
Words can save.
Words can also scar.
The Poet, terrified of despair,
Spoke hope where grief was owed.
She told the wounded to believe harder.
She told the broken to endure quietly.
And those she loved most
Felt the cut deepest.
The Soldier turned away,
Not in anger,
But in hurt too heavy to carry.
Sing of the Poet,
Who learned — too late —
That light forced upon closed eyes
Is another kind of darkness.
Before the sun rose,
The Poet left Caldera.
She said she went to gather stories,
To heal the world with new songs.
But exile is often only another name for running.
Sing of ink drying unused.
Of verses that would not come.
Of silence heavier than noise.
The Poet learned then
What no ballad teaches easily:
That hope denied pain
Becomes a lie.
The Soldier stayed.
She fought on behalf of the realm,
Sword heavy, shoulders heavier.
Victory followed her,
But joy did not.
Sing of nights without sleep.
Of battles won and selves lost.
The Soldier wondered
If holding the line
Meant never being held.
Still, she did not leave.
Sing, oh sing,
For soldiers rarely do.
When word reached Caldera
That the Poet had fallen ill —
Not of body, but of spirit —
The King rose from his throne.
Sing this part slowly.
He took the crown from his brow,
Set it upon the seat,
And walked into the night
Without guard or banner.
The people would later call this foolish.
They would also call it wise.
For a king is not crowned by gold,
But by the choices he dares to make.
The King found the Poet
Beneath an olive tree,
Parchments scattered like leaves.
She looked smaller there —
Not weaker,
But stripped of illusion.
“You are not required to save the world,”
The King said.
The Poet wept,
For no one had ever told her that before.
Days later,
The Soldier came.
She wore no armor.
She carried no sword.
They spoke plainly —
As ballads rarely do,
But life must.
The Poet named her harm.
The Soldier named her exhaustion.
No promises of perfection were made.
Only this:
To stay.
To listen.
To try again.
Sing of love returned not triumphant,
But honest.
Together they returned to Caldera.
The Soldier rebuilt the walls —
Stronger, fairer.
The Poet rewrote the laws —
Kinder, truer.
The King ruled not above them,
But among them.
The crown still bore thorns,
But they no longer drew blood.
Sing, oh sing, of Caldera restored,
Not by conquest or purity,
But by three who learned
That survival is a shared labor.
And so the elders say:
A Soldier who stood.
A Poet who learned when to be silent.
A King who chose love over fear.
And this, child, is why
The truest fairytales
Are not about happy endings.
They are about staying.
The song softens here.
The fire burns low.
The words slow, stretch, grow gentle.
The Poet’s voice lowers,
Careful not to wake the night.
A small hand loosens its grip
On a worn blanket.
“Did they live?”
The child asks, sleep-thick and hopeful.
The Poet smiles in the dark.
“Yes,” she says.
“They lived.”
She presses a kiss
Into dark curls.
Outside the room,
A Soldier’s footsteps pause — familiar, steady.
Down the hall, laughter drifts —
A King’s voice, warm and unguarded.
The Poet tucks the blanket higher,
Brushes a thumb across the child’s brow,
And whispers:
“And that’s why, Sofia,
You never need to be afraid of the dark.”
The candle is blown out.
The ballad ends.
And the kingdom sleeps.