Mab whispers
Who is primogenitor, the sire or the soil, the seed or the rot? What is life but a tapestry half-gnawed by satyrs, smeared by nymphs, tangled by dryads who never learned their weaving? You call it lineage, I call it loom-dust. Jupiter himself has tugged a thread or two and found his thunder unravelled. Diana’s bowstring? A snarl. Venus’ girdle? Knotted and torn.
Do you think your silks fare better? Ha! I am Mab, spinner and spoiler, sibyl and sprite. I twine your houses like ivy over ruins and when I laugh the Fates forget their shears. You have temples of stone; I have threads and threads undo all.
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