No name was whispered, none were known— he ruled from silence, sat alone. A shadow's hand, a phantom’s will, a master patient, watchful, still. He found them lost in filth and strife, three hungry whelps, no chance at life. Their hands were quick, their minds were keen, but wit alone won’t keep you clean. So in they came, beneath his wing, to learn the weight of coin and king. Not swords, not fists—those break and fade, but power lives where deals are made. He taught them gold could buy a throne, that truth was bent, that trust was loaned. A lie, well placed, could shape a war— a debt, well timed, could choke the poor. Yet favor was a fickle thing, and so he sat—observing, keen. For sons must rise and stake their claim, and only one would take his name. Would it be wit, with golden hands? Or fire, where the anvil stands? Or quiet ledgers, thin as air, that topple kings and strip them bare? No word was given, none were told— he watched them strive, he let them mold. A merchant waits, a merchant sees, and time decides who bends the knees.

web:
https://www.quackingwaxx.com/