they say the king cannot be killed— that death itself kneels at his feet, that his shadow stretches farther than the sun. but legends rot, and gods bleed if you cut them deep enough. the queen moves through silence, a ghost draped in patience. she poisons the roots, sours the wine, turns his golden halls into graves. the walls whisper her name, and the floorboards creak with warning. she is everywhere and nowhere— the breath on his neck, the whisper in his ear, the eyes in the dark he cannot shut out. the people remember her now— not the gentle hand of peace, but the storm she has become. their prayers twist into curses, their songs warp into dirges. they do not fear the king anymore. they fear what the queen is becoming. and when she rises, when she spills his throne room red, there will be no mercy. no crown to claim. no kingdom to save. only ruin, and her smile gleaming sharp in the firelight.
poem by me cover from pintrest part 1: https://scratch.mit.edu/projects/1186279009/
