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The Hounds

The night is alive with sharp-toothed cries,

A storm of hunger beneath dark skies.

Their hearts beat wild, their shadows stray,

But my pack of thunder will find the way.

The whip will crack, the air will split,

The hunt moves swift where the savage sit.

Through briars deep and waters wide,

No trail can hide, no man can slide.

Their feet are fleeting, but justice runs fast,

The claws of order are built to last.

They think the night can swallow their trace,

But the wind carries whispers of their race.

The whip will crack, the silence screams,

They’ll wake to the end of their foolish dreams.

The chains await, the fire is fed,

Through the forest thick, through rivers red,

The breath of vengeance will turn their head.

No prayer will save, no star will guide,

The hounds of fate cannot be denied.

The whip will crack, the ground will groan,

The earth itself claims those who’ve flown.

Their cries will echo, the night will wail,

For none outrun the master.

The whip will crack, the iron will sing,

The night bows down to the hunter’s sting.