It is said that fate is not written in ink, but spun in thread.
Within these relics, crimson strands drift through a shroud of pale fog—each thread a life, a choice, a moment yet to resolve. The mist conceals where the lines begin and end, blurring past, present, and what may yet come.
Those who cast these dice do not glimpse destiny itself, only its tension. The pull before the cut. The silence before the outcome. Some swear the fog thickens when a choice is avoided, and thins only when the thread is finally grasped.
Fate, after all, is not unseen.
It is merely obscured—waiting for the hand that dares to roll.
It is said that fate is not written in ink, but spun in thread.
Within these relics, crimson strands drift through a shroud of pale fog—each thread a life, a choice, a moment yet to resolve. The mist conceals where the lines begin and end, blurring past, present, and what may yet come.
Those who cast these dice do not glimpse destiny itself, only its tension. The pull before the cut. The silence before the outcome. Some swear the fog thickens when a choice is avoided, and thins only when the thread is finally grasped.
Fate, after all, is not unseen.
It is merely obscured—waiting for the hand that dares to roll.
