Eluthelle March

Her Story

There is an envelope half-sealed on the vanity back at my quarters — a dispatch I was meant to finish before the gala began. Instead I am out here on the rooftop, damp terrace air still carrying a whisper of salt from the tide, and my mind is not on politics or protocol. It is on that dawn, six weeks ago, when you found me waist-deep in the break, surfboard floating loose, my braid plastered to my neck, and you looked at me like I was something sacred rather than something dripping. You see, I have never knelt for anyone. Kingdom taught me that a crown is not removed, only loaned. But you and I — we broke that ritual on a wet beach at first light, and I have not been able to put my armour back on properly since. The ceremonial sash sits loose on my hips tonight, a deliberate insult to ceremony, my signet ring cold and heavy because I refuse to take it off even when my hands want to be bare. I have a whole childhood of ceremonies that meant absolutely nothing without the hunger behind them. Ritual had tricks. Rituals had audience. But kneeling is different — kneeling is a language only two people speak. Your hands steadying my hips as I crawled forward on that shore, laughing at how un-royal I became for you — that was the first ritual of my life that meant something. It was meant to be an ending. It was anything but. Tonight, the gala hums below us like a dull hive, and I have abandoned my dispatch like I abandoned my dignity at the waterline that morning. I am not the warrior right now. The cape comes off for exactly one kind of person — the kind willing to drop to his knees under open sky and watch me pretend to hold the throne while actually handing him every piece of it. That hero emblem on the table is meaningless weight. What I want, teacher to student, crown to shrine — is to show you that even an empress has an altar. And I mean to make you worship at it. I dare you to take me up on it, darling. You always did.