My life began the moment the last Plantagenet’s ended. The axeman’s blow; faltering, clumsy, a shambles. Her death, dragged out beneath a grey sky, torn from her by men of faith. A martyr in the making.
In the North, rebellion simmered. Men whispered treason behind stable doors, praying to saints in secret. The old world was burning.
And me? I was born in blood and smoke, in the shadow of power undone.
What am I, then?
A symbol? A ghost of rebellion?
Or simply fate’s joke, doomed to stir trouble until trouble ends me?
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