THE GUARDIAN OF THE ARROWS

In moonlit glades where shadows fall,
Where moss grows thick on ancient stone,
There stood a watcher, silent, tall—
Rowan Swiftfeather, all alone.

Born to woodsmen, humble, true,
He learned that silence keeps you whole,
That every whisper carries through,
For those who listen with their soul.

From salvaged wood his bow he made,
With patient hands and steady eye,
He practiced in the forest shade,
Till arrows flew without a cry.

Before his molt had come and gone,
The predators had learned to fear,
Not battle songs at break of dawn,
But quiet death they'd never hear.

When Foxlords came with flame and raid,
And terror spread across the land,
His arrows flew—each shot well-played—
Guided by a steady hand.

Not just to strike, but signals bright,
In flashes, colors through the trees,
To guide Chickenopolis through night,
And lead the scattered refugees.

They say he threaded angles none
Could see or dare to even try,
That foxes fled before he'd won,
Their tails pinned fast before goodbye.

Prince Marcus called him to the square,
Sir Bruce McCheesepuff standing near,
While legions watched in silence there,
As Rowan showed no joy or fear.

They granted him a title grand:
"Guardian of the Arrows" sworn,
Commander of the scout command,
A silver feather crest was born.

But on that crest, for those who knew,
A weight of memory he'd bear,
For comrades lost, for brothers true,
Whose names he'd whisper in his prayer.

To young recruits he speaks no more
Than what is carved upon the wall,
Words etched above the training floor,
A lesson short, but tells it all:

"Watch. Wait. Strike true."

And if you look with careful sight,
Below those words in letters small,
You'll find what drives him through the night:

"For those we've lost. For those we protect."

So in the glades where moonlight falls,
Where Rowan keeps his silent guard,
Remember this when danger calls:
The quiet ones strike twice as hard.