In fields of steel where silence cries,
The reapers march ‘neath empty skies.
No flags, no names, no honored dead—
Just ghosts who fight where angels dread.

They are the lost, the cast aside,
In numbered shells where truths can hide.
Machines their home, the war their fate,
Yet still they dream, though dreams come late.

Shadows flicker behind the screen,
A voice, too soft, too far, too clean.
She watches them with eyes of blue,
And learns that pain can feel like truth.

A soldier walks with haunted grace,
The past a scar upon his face.
Each whisper, name, and brother gone—
He carries all, and still moves on.

They fight not just for breath or land,
But for the chance to understand:
That even when the world forgets,
A spark of light in ruin rests.

So let the Legion swarm and fall,
Let tyrants build their mirrored wall.
For those who live with death as kin,
Know strength is born from deep within.

And when the stars burn cold and high,
And all the songs of war pass by—
Remember them, the Eighty-Six,
Whose hearts still beat through fate’s cruel tricks.