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

I sat on my bed as I remembered a memory from ten years ago. 


The noonday sun hung high as my carriage rolled toward Alririt Kingdom. The day after Prince Athelin's interrupted coronation, I was twelve years old, my curiosity piqued by the world beyond our borders. 


Through the carriage window, I glimpsed a familiar figure sprawled on the grassy ground. "Halt!" I commanded, and the coachman obeyed. I leaped out, racing toward the unconscious form. 


It was King Athelin—still breathing, though barely. His black short hair was untidy,clothes were tattered, his face etched with exhaustion or hunger or even both. I knelt beside him, checking his pulse. Relief washed over me; he was alive. 


"Fetch my gourd!" I ordered a guard. He handed it to me, and I poured water into Athelin's parched mouth. He drank greedily, eyes closed in gratitude. 


The memories I can't remember