Power in its purest form is quiet.
It does not command — the world already bends.
It does not seek warmth — even its own shadows keep their distance.
Beneath the blood-red eclipse she sits,
not as a ruler of kingdoms,
but as something far older:
a presence the wild itself has recognized and bowed before.
She carries the weight of centuries in silence.
The loneliness of one who has ruled for so long
that victory, time, and even the moon
have become nothing more than witnesses.
The crown is heavy.
The silence is heavier.
