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 lord of crows, his eyes obsidian pools of malevolence, surveyed the trembling travellers before him. His laughter, a chilling echo, reverberated through the snow-laden air. The box, once clutched tightly in Kiera's hand, now floated toward him, drawn by an unseen force. She yelped, her fear palpable. 


His satisfaction was a dark flame within him. The core lay nestled within the box. "You all are dead already," he taunted, his voice dripping with cruel amusement. 


Kiera's tear-streaked face contorted with desperation. "You have the core!,Free me from your control," she implored, her voice raw, "and let Teri go!" 


The lord of crows extended his hand toward her, the black magic swirling like ink. He drew it back from her eye, absorbing it into himself. "Run now, little herlian," he sneered, "you don't even know the way to Herl. What use are you?" 


The whispers of a woman