O
Roads are not built; they are woven. Old Mara sat at her loom in the center of the Crossroads. She held spools of grey stone thread, brown dirt thread, and gold adventure thread.
A young man approached. "I seek the path to glory," he said.
Mara looked at him. He was arrogant. She picked up a thread of brambles and wove it into his path.
"There," she cackled. "It will be a hard road. But if you survive, it will be glorious."
A woman approached, crying. "I have lost my way."
Mara picked up a soft, green moss thread. She wove a gentle curve that led back to the woman's home.
"Follow the green," Mara whispered. "It leads to rest."
But then, the King came. "I want a road that goes everywhere," he demanded. "I want to conquer the world."
Mara frowned. She took a thread of black void. She wove it into a circle.
"This road goes everywhere," she lied. "But it never ends."
The King stepped onto the black road. He marched and marched. He is still marching today, circling the world, conquering nothing but his own shoes.