Saddles & Storms (Survival of the Fittest)

Twelve riders rode into the barren land
With leather reins and blood on their hands
The sky was ash, the ground was dry
Hunger whispered, "Who will survive?"
Horses thundered across the cracked earth
Every man chasing gold for what it's worth
Canteens running dry, rations running thin
Only the fiercest had hope to win

Each mile was a gamble, each breath a fight
The storms rolled in and blocked out the light
A desert of bones, no place for the weak—
The gold awaits those who dare to seek
Each mile was a gamble, each breath a fight
The storms rolled in and blocked out the light
A desert of bones, no place for the weak—
The gold awaits those who dare to seek

Saddles and storms, it's the fight for life
Hooves pound the dust, steel meets the knife
Only one rider will cross the line—
Gold for the winner, death for the swine
Through thirst, through pain, with fire in his chest
Erolan rides, outpacing the rest

The numbers thinned as the race wore on
A desert grave for those too far gone
Erolan fought through bandits and beasts
Every breath a victory, every heartbeat a feast
Two riders left in the final stretch
With nothing to lose and everything to fetch
In the end, it came down to steel and will—
A duel in the dust, swift, brutal, and still

Blades met sparks, hooves struck bone
In the barren wilds, you fight alone
With a final strike and a flash of steel
Erolan's fate was set—his victory sealed

Saddles and storms, it's the fight for life
Hooves pound the dust, steel meets the knife
Only one rider will cross the line—
Gold for the winner, death for the swine
Through thirst, through pain, with fire in his chest
Erolan rides, outpacing the rest

The finish line loomed, a prize within sigh
But waiting there was no gold, no light
What greeted him in the final stand
Was the truth hidden deep in the desert's hand
A vault of nothing, a riddle unsaid
For what's gold to the living, if the rest lie dead?

Saddles and storms, it's the fight for life
Hooves pound the dust, steel meets the knife
He crossed the line, but what did he win?
Victory tastes bitter when it's wrapped in sin
Through thirst, through pain, with fire in his chest
Erolan rides, but peace never rests

In the end, the gold meant less than the figh
Survival's the prize in the long, dark night
Erolan rides, but nowhere feels home—
Just a saddle, a storm, and the road to roam