**The lament of the guard
**
The cold of the night becomes more and more intense as the days pass in this cold wilderness, the moon's glow becomes weaker and weaker, signaling how close the winter is. We are not even the shadow of what we used to be when we arrived here, our banner no longer marks the honor, mettle or strength that it once did, because just like us, the order is no longer what it used to be, before we were thousands, defending an oath and safeguarding the hopes of a promising world, now we are only a few hundred, forced to come from everywhere, to fulfill a task that no one wants, to protect lands whose names I do not know, nor do I care to know, to safeguard the inhabitants of a world that is now rotten to the core and worst of all, being already here, we are stripped of everything, our own colors, our badges, taken from our families to become part of a larger one, but not even half as united as we used to be, the worst thing of all, is that no matter how many laments these walls hear and how many of us today die under the hands of savages and animals with beaks and claws ready to kill all of us who today wear black. No one will read this and no one will remember my name or what I was before I came to this place... But none of that matters now, it only matters that today we are still alive for one more battle, to stop as much as we can those who wish to take away the lands that others guard near these walls and spill innocent blood, we are the sword that will defend this world, which although rotten this one, is ours by right and I do not know my other brothers, but I will fight today until my last breath to defend what although I will not be able to enjoy it again, it is mine. May the moon be my guide and the sword my messenger.
The trumpets sound, the travelers from the interior return and bring what the rest of the world throws at our forgotten piece of hell, I see the great veteran who once led armies to these walls, now bringing a few, less than last time but I know there are more who will come next time. "Prospects", some call them, "novices" others say, "initiates" venture to say those who still believe that this is just a few years of uncertainty to be overcome as in other times. But we who have seen the eyes of death in enough brothers know how to discern what they really are, "Fresh Flesh" and I know it by all that they radiate when they arrive, I know it by their tremors in some who are not used to the cold, I know it because others, more proud, still refuse to shed their colors and emblems, which will no longer belong to them. But more importantly, I know because I can see in them, in all of them, something that is totally perceptible to the eye of a killer, they are afraid of everything. Fear of not knowing what they will face, fear for what is beyond the walls, fear of knowing that they will never come home and fear for us, who are already more than used to living in this cold hell. The drums sound, the birds flee, the horses whinny and the novices get up, the great master comes out and orders everyone who can walk to be armed, let's see if... They have the wood to be guards, the morning and its light will decide if this trial by fire leaves anyone alive to carry the black and erase that face of fear with which they all arrived here, the place where every dream and desire dies from the entrance of the black castle.
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