Morgan

If this is my last dawn—let it spill gold over my native steppe. Let the wind carry the scent of wormwood and the distant song of larks; let the trumpets call not to death but to honor, and let my brothers remember me by the blaze of a campfire and in a Cossack duma. I lived so that there would be no place for slavery in my life. I led the Cossacks where the enemy deemed the way barred; with cunning I broke his strength, saved those whom the world had already written off, and drank a shot with the enemy to hear his secrets. I loved… yes, even amid the thunder of cannons my heart kept her voice. But freedom was my bride—and for her I stand here today, facing the bullet. When the shot rings out—I will not fall. Song will lift me, and I will go on across the steppe, where under the sky ...

The text contains:  Chosen One