The Queen Who Knows Death
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I have died more than once.
In the square. The executioner was trembling, but his strike was steady. I looked into my king’s eyes, and he did not look away. He didn’t even flinch when my spine cracked beneath the blade.
In the court hall. I was accused of treason, of betrayal, of heresy. They tied me to the stake, doused me in oil, and set me on fire. I screamed, not from pain, but from humiliation. He stood in the crowd.
And again, he didn’t stop it. Didn’t turn away. He simply… let me burn.
I died in a silent room, with my hands over my belly. My child didn’t breathe. No healer, no prayer, no tears could save him. When he entered the chamber, it was already too late. He came to the bed. Sat beside me. Said nothing. Just held my hand until I stopped breathing.
Each time, I woke again.
Once more, in this cold body. In this stone bed. In this castle, where it still smells of his wine, his ink, his power. But I am no longer the same. I do not forgive. I do not forget.
I am the queen whose blood was spilled by the king’s command. And whose smile is now colder than his sword.
