In the shadowed recess of an ancient void, a loom spins the threads of eternity.
The weavers, unseen, whisper silent tales, woven in time's cruel embrace.
The clock ticks, but whose hand guides its ceaseless march?
In the darkness, echoes of laughter, or perhaps screams, linger yet unheard.
Once, a kingdom flourished beneath the watchful stars,
now a whisper and an echo, a dust of dreams long forgotten.