A King Who Smiles Cruelly

The smoke and flame defined me more than any birthright or lesson.
I was trained to be the prodigy of perfect posture and hidden knives—
but no training instructs you
on how to breathe when the world burns.

Ash fell like snow across my memories.
Blackened hands gripped my sister’s throat,
and I hid in a pit of coals—
a coward’s silence, an unbroken scream.

I built my kingdom from that day:
every handshake a wager,
every smile a whetted blade.
I learned to braid the Spirit into my voice,
to thread diplomacy through clenched teeth.

Each promotion another brick
in the fortress around my heart.
When I looked at him—the boy I should have let die—
I saw the same hollowed-out place, a twin vacancy.

We laughed to keep the fire from our lungs.
We promised each other survival
and called it loyalty.

I told them the monsters were coming—
the old fools just laughed,
said it was the imagination of a child.

Even after all I’ve done,
all the blood I have made to steam and vanish,
I am still that child.

Only now, the pen in my hand
writes death warrants,
draws battle plans, sketches a world
that no longer has room for me.

I am the one who did not stand up.
I am the one who learned to smile.


The Queen’s Role

I was born to be mediocre, destined for titles I never wanted.
When they left me behind,
hidden under a beam and a false record,

I thought dying might be easier
than proving I existed.
I wanted to be unseen,
a shadow with no consequence.

But fate has claws.
It tore me from my shelter
and pressed me into her orbit; 
the girl who would burn the world
rather than feel weak again.

I tried to be small,
but my hands remembered
how to break things,
how to hold back the jaws
of creatures born from nightmares.

Still, when it ended,
I found myself smiling
as if the blood on my face were proof
I had finally done something right. I cannot tell
where duty ends and devotion begins.

When I catch her watching me,
her gaze is a blade and a balm.

Better to be her property
than to be nothing at all.
Fractured, faceted,
reflecting every hope
and every fear
back into the darkness.


Pawn’s Gambit

Sleep is a kingdom I rule alone:
nest of blankets, treaty of silence. 
Coffee is the only siege engine
that breaches my gates.

Some call it cowardice;
I call it efficient survival.
Pawns are always left on the board,
unremarkable, unremarked.
I intend to be the last piece standing.

When they dragged me to interrogate the bruised thug,
I offered him sugar before threats.
I painted my legends:
every word was true enough to terrify,
true enough to save me
the effort of violence.

In this life, I have learned
it is better to pretend exhaustion
than to confess fear.
Better to yawn through danger
than to cry out.

Yet, despite all my retreating,
I have never walked away.
I am there at dawn’s first march,
there when the beasts split the air with claws,
there when the smile cracks
and her eyes go dark.

I am a pawn—
small, expendable,
yet essential.
A witness to this waltz of blades,
a footnote in every triumph.
One day, I will die with my eyes half closed,
dreaming of simpler days.
Until then
I play my part.


The Bishop’s Quiet Game

I have never needed to shout.
Some truths are loud without volume:
the light folding into a dagger,
the instant before a body falls apart.

I watch them all.
I measure each moment,
each heartbeat,
each breath.

We were not chosen for harmony,
only for results.
Everything is a chessboard—
the pieces in constant motion,
the clock ever ticking.

I once counted my kills like currency.
Each life ended was proof
I still had value,
that the spent embers, the soot inside me
could be used for something clean.

Now, when the monsters come,
I slip behind the veil,
a ghost in the crosswinds.
I take no pleasure in the slaughter
but neither do I flinch.

At night, I dream of silence—
not the hush after a death,
but a deeper quiet,
where no orders are spoken,
where the tally of sins
stops.