In the whisper of dawn, where the ravens feast, Among stench of decay, her triumph released. Zaelisa Aberon, with ebon hair flowing, Stands amidst carnage, where death's seeds are sowing. The corpses lie bloated, in horror's grand sprawl, Their fluids imbibe the earth's mournful call. Sightless eyes gaze, from pallid damp beds, While charred remains sing songs of the dead. Her great sword, Lightfell, through Belgraff does bite, Purging his soul with a luminous might. In her icy blue eyes flickers power unbound, As the last she remains, on this blood-soaked ground. Her form is a fortress, her strength undenied, Upon hilt her hands rest, where no fears abide. The blade gleams with essence of those she has felled, And in each drop of blood, dominance is spelled. A vision of ruin in crimson-stained grace, With armor in tatters, she sets the pace. Zaelisa stands tall in hollowed victory, Where fetid winds whisper her fierce legacy.