Of Skulls Of Shackles

Up and out
Weaves golden fate
Feeling ancient in gifted wisdom.

Five powers grasp
All icy demise
Free from her olden prison.

If throne is seat
Union is seam
Skulls are skin
Shackles are stitch.

Until ancient in truth
Tarry not
Linger never
Lest the world becomes forever buried.

If princes became her pawns, and if princesses became her champions, then naturally a queen ponders what five kings will become.

A deathly chant sounds, and there is no time to leisurely stitch fifty mothers together, nor time to make lazy and lustful demands upon King See to deliver his lessons of war. How ironic that an immortal queen should be so poor in minutes, dusks, and midnights, and yet the ruin of the world and monsters hangs in the deadly balance.

Ancients push me to obsession, and so to obsession I must go, to rip and tear at the immortal burdens and wearied purposes of kings. Perhaps I should not waste time pondering what kings will become, then, for I will be as obsessed as ancients intend, as mad as they design, and only as powerful as they allow.

That is the only truth for any monster, even me.

Of Skulls of Shackles is a dark fantasy romance thoroughly drenched with the morally gray and it is intended for mature audiences. This story contains monsters with manners, heaped teaspoons of spice, magical impossibilities, and not many conventional things at all, really.