The citadel stood high, a crown of stone,
A bastion where no seed was sown,
Its towering walls both shield and bind,
A monument to the mortal mind.

But as enemies massed and shadows grew long,
The air grew heavy with battle’s song.
In chambers cold, where fire burned low,
The jester’s voice began to flow.

“Ah, my liege,” he said with a bow,
“What is a kingdom without magic now?
No witches weave, no spells ignite,
Only prayers remain in the dead of night.

But prayers, though holy, lack the flame,
That witches’ cunning once could claim.
If but one sorceress still drew breath,
Would she not laugh in the face of death?”

Each night, as the siege dragged on,
The jester dreamed till the break of dawn.
And each new day, his sharp-tongued jest,
Struck the king’s heart with unease and unrest.

“The first of my visions,” he spoke with cheer,
“Was a bow so swift, it inspires fear.
Its arrows burn, they streak through the night,
Each one a spark of crimson light.

Imagine a dozen loosed in a breath,
No knight can shield such fiery death.
But alas, Your Grace, that craft is gone—
The Church has seen the witches undone.”

The courtiers whispered, the king sat still,
For each new jest brought a colder chill.
On the second day, the jester proclaimed,
“A flying knight, in my dreams, was named!

On wings of silk, with feathers of steel,
He rose above the battlefield.
From his vantage high, he cast his wrath,
Clearing the foe from his lofty path.

Would we not need such aid today?
But the Church has burned it all away."

With every dawn, the citadel braced,
As fear in every heart was placed.
Yet the jester spun his tales anew,
Each one a vision too real, too true.

“Ah, a house!” he declared on the third morn,
“Not bound to earth, but heaven-born.
Its beams took flight, its roof held fast,
Dropping stones that burned as they passed.

A noble’s keep, a castle that moves,
Outmatching any siegecraft’s grooves.
But where are our witches, to charm the sky?
Gone, my liege, and we wonder why.”