Table adorned with instruments of death
and thrones crafted from mythical bones
of magic; the secret dwells in each breath
as my blood burns in fear, but I am alone.
The curtains are dripping. The table round
where murder holds court and submits to fear.
The unknown keep quiet, dead at the sound
of a voice, a whisper, whimpering tears.
My brothers would have me dead if they knew
of my power- destiny in my veins.
In the hollow hall where no trials are true
and the blood falls and I stand in the rain.
I know my purpose now; Arthur must die.
And magic restored to it’s purpose divine.


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