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Coups de cœur Cultura
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Beneath a name not truly hers, she lay,
A ghost of fire, hidden far away.
They called her Ruby, soft and small,
Unknowing heir to rise, or fall.
Her cradle was a coffin, forged in flame,
The grave gave silence, blood gave name.
She grew where sun and shadow kissed,
Unmarked by sword, by fang, by fist.
But blood is a compass, fate a tide,
And truth, though buried, does not hide.
She learned to walk where legends bled,
To mourn the living, fear the dead.
Her brother watched with eyes of stone,
A blade in wait, yet not alone.
A hunter loved her, wrong but true
And angels wept for what she knew.
Now thrones lie broken, names are scars,
And vengeance weeps beneath the stars.
But still she stands, though torn and worn,
A ruby, yes—by thorns reborn.
