by Amy Sheridan
The throne is cold and no place to call home. There is not one cell in my body that is not lonely. To be a woman in a world placed in the hands of man is the scariest thing I have ever known. War births itself within the walls of a kingdom. The slaughter of my brothers and sisters' weeps Apon every surface of my femininity. The eggshells below my feet crunch with every fragile touch of my fragile step, and my throbbing heartbeat rings throughout my head like a banshee's cry. This feeling seems to be infinite.
The land between two kingdoms has crumbled to ruins and with no king in heir, I have no choice but to be the face of sovereignty.
The first time they came they raided our riches and had stolen our kingdoms dignity, but no number of invasions for riches could have prepared us for the second day they came. On the second day they left with their hands stained red as their fingertips clasped the last of what air was left in my people's lungs.
Within not even a matter of hours, I was brought Apon the tapestry and coronated queen at the bones of my father, who was still warm in his casket.
The fury in my soldier's hearts is almost as sour as the defeat in their eyes. While anger blossoms from the roots of the castle, fear dances the streets of my remaining citizens society. My heart breaks for this kingdoms disappear, for it is a tragedy all in its own.
But if a battle is what is called for then a battle is what I will bring. My troops will march and with them I'll go, down to the graveyard. The war zone will thunder, and I promise the enemy will perish, and once again my landrealm will be a haven. This kingdom begs for a savor and a queen. And I will be both.