Throne of the Forest - 3rd Canto

This is the final Canto from my work, "Throne of the Forest". 

I published Canto 1 - on 1st of Jan, 2021 / 31st of December, 2020 (Depending on where you were in the world, and how you think timezones work)
I wrote Canto 2 - on May 28th, 2021
And now. I've finished Canto 3 - On August 20th, 2025

I know I was working on a LOT of different project in the middle there, including but not limited to my forays into art, painting, music, writing PROSE, and even other poems.

That said, I am glad that this is finally finished - and that this one has turned out the way it has. 

As always - please tell me what you think, and where improvements can be made. 

For reference - Part 1 can be found [Here] and Part 2 can be found {Here}

III:

Beneath skies, darkened by raven wings,
thunder rolled under marching hooves.
An end to our tale this cold wind brings,
where the final pieces now make their moves.
Soldiers marched along paths set in stone,
spurred on by stories, rumours and tales,
thralls of fear, following folly alone,
with malice hidden well beneath their veils.

Before stone city gates, the army now stood,
around their feet danced magic and tune.
The King started his tale, steeped in falsehood,
to enter the forest - he cried for this boon.
But ghostly echoes played about the livings' lips,
"Kingly one, or cowardly one, no more distinct,"
Jarred by the reply, the mask fades and slips,
"To axes! To arms!", but his bravado blinked.

Though useless the command, the people still fled,
and neither burns nor steel could hinder their flight,
deep into the forest, from whence music had spread,
and thorns grew violent, with unstoppable might.
They tried to pursue, determined in their campaign,
but the woods swallowed them whole, horses and all.
Their failures repeated, lives lost and efforts in vain,
as the forest lay unyielding to both King and his call.

At the end of this long march, only two now are left,
a chain of spilled blood, fanged and forged in fear,
a king of no status, and his garbs now bereft,
bloody and barefoot, to the final stage they appear.
A clearing now revealed to this surviving spectre,
a bounty in wait, of magic, fresh foods and orchards,
he ignored them all, dragging his remains to the centre,
to a giant tree where stood giant beasts like stewards.

Deep into the tree was carved an exquisite throne,
which held the bones of the forest's guardian child,
who had led a full life, devoid of gripe or groan,
and whose love for the forest grew it lush and wild.
Prophecy now fulfilled, and the dread king knelt,
defeated entirely by a ghost of his own making,
who lifted no finger, merely using which fate had dealt,
as the mad king's spectre fell before the forest's king.