The black sword tore the ancient world into sand and fire
A terrible tremor on the eternal stones - that is the seal of tradition.
Here the blade, instead of a book, habitually falls into the palm,
Here they know how to kill for honour, not knowing how to keep silent.

Loneliness is now not punishment, but the framework of the game,
Honour and duty are like the scales in the reflection of the eyes.
Here other people's words, as always, are cold and sharp,
And cries for help are often rejected.

Here, from birth, souls forge strong armour for themselves,
To withstand a daring deception or a fiery look.
Here murder, betrayal, lies are not considered a sin,
Here, when they meet, friends are poured both wine and poison.

Instead of lying morals forever - only pride and honour,
The flame of the eyes, the steel of the soul, and the eternal winged blade.