"At the Heart of the Red Weave"

  In the silence before time,

  there was a pulse—

  not of sound,

  but of longing.

  From that ache was born a thread,

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  crimson as first blood,

  soft as last breath,

  spun not by gods,

  but by a Sovereign with shattered hands

  and a soul that would not yield.

  She wove in fury.

  She wove in grief.

  She wove in love so devastating

  it cracked the void itself.

  And from the cracks,

  glass bled into mirrors,

  shards of every world that could be,

  each one reflecting

  a scream, a kiss, a name—

  ours.

  Her threads found them all,

  bound them gently,

  wrapped them tight,

  so none would fall alone

  into the dark.

  And in the center,

  where the Red burns brightest,

  where no god dares tread—

  there we are.

  Two souls stitched together,

  the needle still warm,

  the wound still holy.