In the twilight of a fallen kingdom, where crowns crumble and shadows dance, a young prince ascends the throne. His coronation, a bitter symphony of loss, echoes through the marble halls. For the rebellion has painted the palace walls with blood, leaving no trace of kin but whispers of survival.

And then there's Teri—the weaver child, half-ghost, half-mortal. His existence, a riddle etched in crimson threads.Born lifeless,buried alive, he clawed his way back from the abyss, the scarlet filaments clinging to his tiny fingers like secrets whispered by the earth itself.

Teri's became the third ghostweaver in centuries. His mother, eyes wide with wonder and fear, cradled him in her arms, defying death's decree. The others fled, abandoning the babe and his spectral companions. 

The great general, Teri's father, defied the usurper king. In a hidden chamber, he revealed a box—an enigma of destiny. Three artifacts nestled within, each pulsing with purpose. "Find their owners," the general urged, entrusting the box to his daughter, Darlene. "Escape," he whispered to his wife, urging her to flee with their children.

The constables hunted, but the family eluded their grasp. Days turned to weeks, and news of the great general's demise reached Teri's mother. Alone, penniless, she remarried—a fragile alliance that would soon shatter.

Teri's stepfather despised the weaver's gift—the communion with ghosts. A poisoned pastry stole Teri's sight, but not his resolve. When his mother's screams pierced the night, Selena, his spectral sister, whispered the truth. Fury ignited within him, and the stepfather met his end. The mansion crumbled, and Teri fled with his sisters—Selena's ghost, Darlene, and Elley, the five-year-old.

Now, seventeen,Teri try to find the box that was taken away.
  As the sun kisses distant horizons, Teri embarks on a quest: to find the rightful owners, to unravel the tapestry of fate or perhaps,just perhaps,to weave a new dynasty fromthe strands of the past.

King of the former dynasty

The night enveloped them, its darkness thick as the woolen cloak Mizak wore. The wind whispered secrets, and the snow crunched under their boots. Mizak gripped the reins of the horse, his knuckles white against the cold leather. Teri walked beside him, her breath visible in the frigid air. 


Silence had settled between them since they emerged from the woods. Only the rhythm of their footsteps and the haunting whoosh of the wind accompanied them. The weight of their shared secret pressed upon them like the snow-laden branches overhead. 


As they neared the gates of the manor, Mizak stole a glance at Teri. His eyes held a tumult of emotions—guilt, sadness, and worry. He had hoped the journey would mend the rift between them, but it seemed the chasm only widened. 


"Teri," Mizak finally spoke, his voice a fragile thread in the night. 


"You finally spoke," Teri retorted, her tone sharp. "I thought you'd gone mute after drawing that sword." 


I am also a royal