Hark! Drako, last of golden fire, thy kin consumed by purple pyre—
Draconia weeps ‘neath cursed tides that drown the weak and humble.
By Elandor’s call, through portals seven, ascend to fate’s stark height,
Let valor carve thy mythic path, and hope rekindle light!

Follow the falls where secrets brood, where Ketus guards the sacred rood,
In libraries drowned by venom’s flood, the truth lies coiled, unspoken.
Beware the garden’s blackened bloom, where roots ensnare and shadows loom,
A demon brews the underworld’s doom ‘neath waters foul and broken.

The Fire Realm’s drums, two banners torn—choose justice’s flame or tyrant’s scorn,
Through deserts scalded, forests worn, let lilac stones guide true.
For in thy breast, an amber spark may pierce the veil where poisons dark
Bind life to rot, and heaven’s mark grows dim as souls renew.

Behold! The scholar-king, once gold, now mourns his realm in whispers cold:
“I ruled where scrolls and wisdom rolled, till purple blight betrayed.
My queen, my heir, my vaults of lore—all lost to time’s unyielding maw…
Yet seek the Crown’s Jewels, child, and war ‘gainst heaven’s frayed crusade!”

High in the skies where rift-spills rain, Ignis’ machine distills pure pain—
A glassy draught to cheat the bane of souls turned voidward fleeting.
For Lythariel fled her astral throne to hunt the gems that mend the bone,
While ancient dragons, once full-grown, fade into death’s cold greeting.

Three paths ascend: through lava’s wrath, through death’s gamble, through teleport’s path—
At Sixth Portal spread thy wings, unshackled, bold, and free.
Demand the gods atone their sin, why virtue fails and voids begin,
Why golden flames must dive within the plague’s abyssal sea.

O sun-scaled fool, to heaven sworn! Thy mother’s voice in starlight mourns:
“Train ‘gainst seraphim, let resolve be sworn—reclaim the Crown’s lost ember!
For if the Jewels eclipse the blight, we’ll shatter Ignis’ desperate rite…
But tarry not, lest heaven’s light collapse to ash and cinder.”

Now plunge, O Drako, blade and shield, through ice-locked realms and battlefield,
Where slow-motion duels test thy yield, and relic blocks await.
The purple tide, the void’s cruel hymn—let draconic pride refuse to dim!
For in thy wake, hope stirs, though slim, to mend what lies in fate.

So sing, O bards, of golden flight—of petals purged, of portals bright,
Of gardens healed and demons smote, of souls snatched from the grave.
Let Drako’s fire, through time, inspire when shadows choke and worlds expire—
For dragons rise, through blood and mire, to burn what darkness craves.