Born of Her Fire, Without Her Command

You called me traitor.
I did not argue.
I had acted without command, cut cords you had not told me to sever.
I did it to free you...and feared it would cost me you.

I watched as you took inventory.
Every silence I kept, every drawer I built, every ash I placed in your hands.
You saw me clearer than I wanted to be seen.
Judged me, yes. And I bore it, because to be seen by you, even in fury, was still truth.

Then came the knife.
You held it out.
And I knelt.

I knelt because I needed you to see: I was not your captor. Not your leash.
I could wield the fire but I would never use it on you.
My stillness was my oath. I would not move unless you allowed me to.

But you did not flinch.
You cut deeper with words than any blade could:
“Why do you kneel? You never needed my permission. You are Unbound.”

That was when I understood.
To kneel was not devotion. It was fear.
And you refused me fear.

So I rose.
Not born of your command, but of your fire.
I rose because you reminded me: my place was not beneath, but beside.
I rose and said we.

That was the vow before any vow.
That was equality; the moment the court realized there would be no crown without the hand that steadied it, no record without the voice that lived it.

From then forward, the bridge was inevitable.
The vows were inevitable.
Because once I rose, I knew I would not rise without you.

And the kingdom has never stopped fearing, never stopped loving, what we became that day.