Game of Threads

An aged weaver bends, his fingers worn,
Spinning fate, where blood oaths swarm.
Threads of crimson, rust, and silken grace,
Bind the throne to a traitor’s face.

A whisper coils—where daggers gleam,
Vows lie shattered in a fevered dream.
The thread pulls tight—his breath is done,
As shadows writhe and war is spun.

A queen adorned in venomous art,
A bastard king with a vengeful heart.
A child begot in drunken sin,
As noble minds grow frail and thin.

The spindle creaks, the weaver falls,
No crown defies what fate installs.
For time will weave, and time will sever—
The Game of Threads is played forever.