Dark feathers gleamed, her blade razor-sharp, beauty forged in hardship’s spark. Through Velora´s jagged paths, her heart grew cold, her sister joined, two thieves turned bold. Coins they chased, a game they’d play, morality tossed like leaves away. An old Rare duck’s hand, so kind, so free, stirred jealousy deep as the sea. She schemed his end, his wealth her prize, no thought for the cost or fate’s surprise. “Be careful,” her sister Cindrelle said with a frown, "for blades that cut may swing back down". But she laughed, her knife held tight—a shadow stalking in the night.

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