In a realm of whispers and shadows long,
Two souls of royal blood sang their song.
Born of the same line, but not the same womb,
Their eyes set on the crown, a shared doom.
One, with a heart like the fiercest storm,
Whose dreams at night of the throne take form.
The other, with a mind sharp as thorn,
Wielding words like swords since they were born.
The throne stood silent, a prize to be won,
As the Empire watched, the conflict begun.
Each move they made, a dance of power,
In the silent halls of the midnight hour.
The elder spoke of tradition and right,
A claim to the throne as clear as daylight.
The younger, with charm and a vision new,
Promised the people a world to renew.
The court divided, the lines were drawn,
In the struggle for power from dusk till dawn.
Neither yielding, both strong and bold,
In the pursuit of the throne's pure gold.
The clash of wills, a tale as old as time,
A battle for power, steeped in grime.
But blood calls blood, even in strife,
For the bonds of kin outlast any life.
So let the bards sing and the tale unfold,
Of the two who fought for the throne of old.
In the end, 'tis not just a seat they sought,
But a legacy, with their destinies wrought.
