Death Loves Winter

This is not a story about a kingdom.

It is about her.

Her name is Winter.

People say it so easily now. As if it belongs to them. As if they understand what it means.

They do not.

I have seen men unravel because she would not bend. I have seen powerful men convince themselves they were protecting her when all they wanted was to possess her. I have seen a throne grow uneasy simply because she refused to make herself small.

She was never careless with her ambition. That is what they misunderstand. She knew exactly what she was reaching for. She simply believed she could have all that she desired.

There were three men who loved her, each in their own way. One with patience. One with devotion. One with something that felt like inevitability.

But I love her in a way that has not ended.

This is not the version they tell before sleep, softened at the edges so no one feels guilty.

It is what happens when a woman wants power in a world that only tolerates it in men. It is what happens when love begins to feel like ownership. When devotion grows heavier than protection.

Some speak as though they know how it all ended.
They do not.

I was there.

I am still here.
And I have not forgotten.

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