Through crepuscular trials and vigil’s toll,
The Scion carved fate in aureate scroll.  
A child of lore, tempestuous flame,
Her saga inked in stars unnamed.  

The cosmos murmured, “Ascend, ignite,”  
She rose a cipher of scholar’s rite.  
Each tome she turned, each theorem sown,
Her fervor flared, her soul full-grown.  

She reached the verge of promised grace,
With hands unsoiled, with measured pace.  
One breath away from laureled claim,
A diadem carved in honor’s name.  

But serpents hissed in cloistered shade,
A pact was penned, her path mislaid.  
Not vanquished by flaw nor faltered might,
But by the veiled who veil the light.  

A patriarch’s whisper, a tyrant’s jest,
Her name expunged, her truth suppressed.  
No trumpet blared, no gavel fell,
Just silence deep a  stolen spell.  

The Scion did not wail nor rend the air,
She stood unmade in just despair.  
A revenant of dreams once crowned,
Now wandering where wrongs resound.  

“How does one breathe when justice chokes?  
When merit drowns in gilded cloaks?  
If dreams can die by silent scheme,
Then power mocks, and truth blasphemes.”  

Her fate entombed in hush profound,
Yet echoes rise from burial ground.  
For wings once clipped shall cleave the sky,
And justice knock where lies deny.