"Must my life wither like fresh flowers?" "Will all my blazing glory burn out into grey ash in the end?" "Will even my illustrious name eventually fade into shadow?" "Even if it is as brilliant as a blooming flower, and light as a song." She knew not how many times she had crossed the mountain's spine, just as she could no longer recall how many winters she had endured. Every year, before the Embercore Flowers bloomed, the mistress of the mountain mines would come alone to the wilds of Tequemecan Valley, Following ancient tradition, she offered dew-kissed flowers to those friends who could not witness the coming of dawn. The heart that was once cold and hard as obsidian had been eroded and softened by time, But anyone who could receive that warmth, no matter who, had already long since returned to the Sacred Flame. Until the rumbling of the mines and the song of the artisans working shook her awake from her bitter memories, The representative of the Chiefs suddenly realized that the echoes of the Nanatzcayan had already reached this place. The once deserted, lonely mountains now resounded with echoes of laughter and peals of joy like ringing bells. It was what the young once dreamed of during the years when they were still hidden from those around them, Belonging to countless beings who struggled to overthrow the usurpers, and it belonged to the future, the quickening of civilization. And so the representative, who was by no means still young, began to laugh, and though in those days she had written it off as a mere prank, She sang the song he had once taught her, but that she had been too embarrassed to ever sing to him. Like a tambourine adorned with flowers, a tale ornamented with tears, responding to the melody echoing amidst the mountains, Like stone engraved and echoing peaks, as though tempered by the fires of the forge, gave their blessings to all beings, Converge, disperse, in ashes be reborn, for flames born anew, and the blazing dawn. In the thousands of years after authority was returned to the tribes, countless stories were scattered in the moonlight, The ballads once kept by "Peace-Reforger" Sakkuk now long lost. Yet that resolute, sharp rhythm that has been passed down to this day with every stroke of hammer on chisel, After all, that burning rhythm is the blood that has flowed through the mines since ancient times, And the sparks showering forth from the hammer's blows are the song dedicated to those who resist, a melody that will never wither. "Must my life wither like fresh flowers?" "When all is quiet chaos, whither will my heart go?" "None stay forever in this world, we but briefly pass through." "But here, there were once flowers — here, there was once song."