Mine is the shadow beneath the door

Yours is the blood upon my blade

These are the brothers I betrayed

This is the contract I foreswore

We were brethren—but never more,

For Mother calls to black crusade

I must unmask a masquerade—

Yours is the blood upon the floor.


We were brethren—my brothers lie

All cold, unfeeling, in the dark,

Eyes fixed upon encroaching night

For I have shown them how to die.

This is their blood. I've made my mark.

Mother calls me her dark delight.

A/N: Sonnet, Petrarchan, written in iambic quatrameter.