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 moon hung high in fiber the night sky, casting a silvery glow over the snowy landscape. Teri stood alone, his cloak absent—Prince Ivive had taken it to the tent while fetching two sticks for their spear practice. 


When Prince Ivive returned, he found Teri lost in thought. "Is the ghost weaver pondering the love life he'll pursue once the battle is over?" he quipped, approaching Teri. 


Teri turned toward him, his hair matted with blood, just like Prince Ivive's attire. 


Teri grinned. "It wasn't funny, Your Highness. Try harder next time," he retorted. 


Prince Ivive brushed his unruly brown hair back as the wind played with it. With a smile, he chuckled. "Well, it wasn't meant to be funny; it wasn't a joke, Ghost Weaver," he said in a low tone, closing the distance between them. 


"Silenced?" Prince Ivive leaned closer, raising Teri's chin with a finger, a mischievous grin on his face. 


Come closer to feel it