Version 1

In the realm of Lamos, where shadows
creep,
Vekir, the Guardian, was awakened from
sleep.
He gazed upon the hero, with a mocking
stare,
For something amiss, a burden she did
bear.

"Wait," said Vekir, his voice dripping disdain,
"Something's different, your demeanor
is not the same.
No longer noble, no longer pure,
What have you done, dear hero, to ensure
That ancient blade clutched tight within
your grasp,
A prize obtained by sacrifice, a deadly
clasp?"

He sneered at her, his eyes gleaming with 
scorn,
As her tears mixed with blood, a forlorn
mourn.
Kneeling there, one knee pressed against
the stone,
Her heart weighed heavy, with sacrifice
unknown.

"Oh, how brave you are, a blade so rare,
Obtained by shedding blood, a life you dare.
Tell me, hero, who did you forsake,
To wield that weapon, your soul a stake?
A loved one, perhaps, once close and dear,
Their life extinguished, their memory
seared?"

The hero trembled, her voice but a whisper,
"Vekir, Guardian of Lamos, my heart's
blister,
I gave up someone, someone I hold dear,
Their sacrifice fuels this blade of fear.
You mock my pain, my burden so deep,
But know this, Vekir, even shadows weep."

Vekir laughed, a wicked sound in the air,
Mocking her anguish, reveling in dispair.
"Shadows weep? How quaint, a feeble plea,
A blade stained with blood, a heart torn 
apart,
Your noble facade crumbling, a broken art."