In a realm where shadows endlessly unfurl,
Beneath the weight of iron clouds that swirl,
There lies a tale, old as time itself,
Of twisted hate, that thrives on dust and shelf.

In twilight hours when silence reigns supreme,
And whispers haunt the corridors of dream,
A seed of spite is sown in fertile ground,
Where once pure love and kindness could be found.

The story starts in ancient, fractured lands,
With battles waged by ruthless, bloodied hands.
A king once noble, driven by his greed,
Turned heart to stone, and planted loathsome seed.

Beneath the spires of a forgotten throne,
Where mercy’s light had never truly shone,
A child was born of fire and of pain,
To carry forth a lineage stained and slain.

Her name was Seraphine, a name of grace,
Yet in her eyes, a darkness took its place.
Abandoned in a world so cold and stark,
Her tender heart was kindled into dark.

The streets she walked, where shadows dared to play,
With echoed cries of those who’d lost their way,
Did shape her mind with twisted, ruthless hate,
Her soul a mirror of her woeful fate.

Her laughter, once so innocent and bright,
Now echoed like a raven in the night.
She found in vengeance solace for her strife,
Embracing shadows, sacrificing life.

Her hands, so small, could wield destruction's flame,
And in her wake, she left a path of shame.
The twisted hate consumed her every breath,
Her heart a prisoner, sentenced to death.

Yet somewhere deep within that prisoned core,
A memory of love forevermore,
Did flicker faintly, like a dying spark,
A hope that might dissolve the endless dark.

In midst of battle, ‘neath a blood-red moon,
She crossed a stranger, neither late nor soon.
A warrior, brave, with eyes of...