most say the land is ruled by the king— and they’re not wrong. he starts wars with a whisper, ends lives with a glance, turns cities into smoke and ash just to make a point. they bow to him. they fear him. they think they know the story. but they don’t. not the whole of it. long, long ago—before the flames, before the skies turned red with sorrow— the land was hers. the queen ruled with quiet strength, and under her hand, the rivers sang, the stars shone brighter, and no blood stained the soil. peace reigned. hope grew like wildflowers. the people breathed freely. until the king struck. he stormed her halls, ripped the crown from her brow, stole her light, and crushed it in his fist. he broke the world she built, reduced her to a shadow beside his throne— a puppet, a prize. and he smiled, thinking he had won. but he did not know her. he did not see the fire he had tried to smother burning quietly behind her eyes. she played her part, nodded, knelt, let him believe her broken. all the while, she was waiting— plotting beneath the silence, sharpening her will like a blade. every lie she told him was a weapon. every smile, a trap. and now, her time has come.
poem by me cover from pintrest part 2:https://scratch.mit.edu/projects/1224423300/
