The Evil Queen Breaks Alone

They call me merciless. They say I am carved from winter itself. I was born without softness. Without warmth. Without mercy.

Children behave when mothers threaten them with my name. Nobles do not meet my gaze when I walk into a room. Generals stand straighter. Assassins think twice.

My enemies - those are who I worked hardest on. I made certain they feared me.

I sharpened every glance into a blade. Every word into law. Every silence into a threat.

I learned exactly how long to hold their gaze before someone looked away. I learned how stillness unsettles most men more than screaming at them ever could. I learned that cruelty, when displayed with pure precision, becomes legend.

So, I gave them legend.

I gave them a queen who could order executions with just a look - no trembling, no second thought. A queen who would burn traitors. A queen who could condemn bloodlines. A queen untouched by pity.

I let them believe I felt nothing.

Fear protects. As long as they fear me, they know they are protected by me. Fear keeps enemies away. Fear keeps kingdoms standing.

Only a few ever knew the truth beneath the crown, and they are gone. Only you knew the inside and out of the so-called monster queen, and you are gone.

You knew me. Not the monster. Not the tyrant. Just… me. My one love, from the day we met until the day you were taken… and beyond. The boy who knew me before crowns and titles. Before grief hollowed me out. You knew the woman who once laughed too loudly in the quiet palace gardens. The woman who stole cakes from royal kitchens. The woman who once knew how to sleep without the burning dread pressing against her ribs, without the hole that is now left in my heart.

I remember her, you know? I remember the way the world was bright, the air was lighter, my smile reached my eyes. You remember her too, don’t you? Or perhaps memory belongs only to the living.

But that is the curse, isn’t it? Memory.

The dead are spared it. The living are not.

I still remember everything. I remember the smell of burning cedar as the southern wing collapsed. I remember the screams. The red and orange flames. I remember reaching for you, trying to save you and failing.

That is the part no one ever tells you about loss. It isn’t the funeral. It isn’t the silence that follows, or people not knowing what to say. It isn’t even the grief. It is the moment. The exact moment your world splits into before and after.

And nothing – nothing – ever becomes whole again. I never became whole again.

There was a before. Now there is only an after.

After, they placed a crown on my head. After, they told me the kingdom needed strength, needed me to be strong. After, they said there was no time to grieve.

Enemies gathered at our borders. Council members whispered. Blood rivals smelled weakness. Everyone wanted something. No one asked what had been taken from me. No one asked if I could bear it.

They simply handed me a throne built from inheritance I didn’t want. Built from expectations, yet they called it duty.

So, I sat. I learned. I learned grief is dangerous in a ruler. Tears become leverage. Pain becomes vulnerability. Love becomes a weapon.

You warned me once, back when we were young and in love, back when the only thing on our mind was each other. You said love makes us brave, but it also gave the world a knife to hold against our throats. I never said it at the time, but you were right.

So, I buried everything. I buried the girl I used to be. The softness. The tenderness. I buried every trembling part of myself beneath stone and steel and law.

Brick by brick.

Bone by bone.

Until the walls I was building became so high even, I could no longer see over them. Could no longer see the girl I was. The girl I should be.

Did you know everyone praised me for it? I don’t know whether that is the humour behind it or the cruelty - they called me strong. As though enduring unbearable pain, pain that almost kills you, and doing it without collapsing is some noble triumph. As though silence is bravery. As though bleeding internally counts less because no one else can see the wounds.

I became everything they wanted. Everything they needed.

Untouchable.

Unbreakable.

Feared.

Safe.

My kingdom prospered. Trade flourished. Our borders held. No invader dared challenge me. Children slept safely beneath their blankets. Mothers buried fewer sons.

But every victory cost me another piece of myself… was it all worth it? I ask myself this often. I wonder if you would ask me the same, but knowing you, I can already hear your voice asking.

Is protection always going to feel like dying?

How much of oneself can be carved away before there is nothing left to rule?