He stared at the thin blade levitating in a magnesia bubble. In the center of the domed vault coagulated power harnessed by the prime-alchemists. A reminder of his father’s folly, symbol of antirevolutionist power.
It was Childe’s play to pretend, now play was over. Today the Red King would come to power. He would wed his White Queen for whom he had no love.
“We can only hope feeble father left some stones standing in the desert.”
Soft spoken words. A flow that induced rotation of the blade.
“It is all up to you, now”
Unseen words from the shadows.
I now challenge with the following title: The White Queen
All those that wander are not lost, yet for those who like to start somewhere: Beginnings of the beginning
Painting by Boardman Robinson, 1937