Aldebar is a merchant along with his kin
There’s nothing in town he hasn’t smuggled in
Ilona his daughter with a head full of trade
Competing all others into an early grave
Cousin Tor who handles the bulk of the work
The other names shine, but the other names shirk
Old Vittorio sits on a throne made of steel
The kingdom is safe, but what’s the unease he feels?
Young Otho his son, a warrior of reknown
So rarely seen by any here in this town
Octavia walks the halls of their home
Decked out in mourning, but is it her own?
Alma, shining, now the lady of artists
Bereft of a mate who was not the smartest
Alonzo the wealthy, flush now with gold
From whence did it come? The trail grows cold
Silvio the chatterbox, always ready to talk
His golems, though silent, prepare now to walk
Lord Ivan with a secret in his chest
Nobody told though for time he is pressed
Young Tibor his nephew, long thought a fool
Has now found himself a useful new tool
Gizela, once heir with mail in her glove
Now lost and cut deep by one she did love
Melbourne counts his coins of gold
But imperiled are his dreams of old
I see dark Sydney, born of greed
A mother by an unknown’s seed
Fell Mortimer, her uncle hewn of stone
Who three times now turned down the throne
