Born in the shadow of a golden throne,
A silver tongue, and a heart of stone.
The "rightful king" of a frozen waste,
With the bitter sting of a lie to taste.
He sought the crown, he sought the light,
To prove his worth in his father’s sight.
But shadows stretched where the trickster stepped,
While the secrets of his cradle were kept.
Through portals of blue and scepters of gold,
A story of mischief and malice was told.
Yet beneath the grin and the velvet green,
Was the loneliest god the stars had seen.
From the dungeon floors to the Sakaar sun,
The war with his brother was never quite won.
For how do you fight the one who still cares?
Who offers a hand despite all the snares?
Then the clock began to wind and chime,
A variant lost in the halls of time.
No longer the villain, no longer the joke,
As the chains of his "glorious purpose" broke.
He didn't find a throne of wood or gold,
But a burden of stars, lonely and cold.
The God of Stories, weaving the strands,
Holding the multiverse in his hands.
