The kingdom is built. Now comes the dream that made it legendary: a table with no head and no foot, where a blacksmith's son sits level with a duke, and every man's word carries the same weight. This is the brotherhood's oath, sung from the eyes of a common man who never expected to eat anywhere but the long board where the help ate cold.

The Round Table wasn't just furniture, it was a radical idea. No man above another. Former enemies sharing a watch and trusting each other with their backs. The song captures that dream at its peak, when the oath still held and the brotherhood meant everything. But oak swells in the wet and splits when the years run dry, and one empty chair waits at the curve of the ring for a man who hasn't come yet. The cut that fells a kingdom always comes from someone already at the table.