Coldstreak Stories

(Warning: Book contains not that graphic, very mild gore) A crown of gold, a heart of glass, He watched the shifting seasons pass. With pride as thick as winter frost, He never counted what it cost. One was shy, a quiet flame, Who hid within a royal name. But deep inside, a steel was found, To guard the others, strike the ground. The archer spoke in thorns and lies, With shadows in his clever eyes. A brother watched from library stalls, While madness grew within the walls. The player danced with shifting fate, And turned his love to jagged hate. He could not win, he could not stay, So he took the light and light away. The bow is slack, the target cold, The stories that were never told. A pink ribbon on a marble stone, And a king who sits on a bench of bone.