The Queen of Cinders
The throne is not bone alone, but ash and starlight— a quiet altar where the Queen of Cinders keeps her court.
Her hair spills like wildfire across her shoulders, red as the last blaze of sunset, each strand catching light as though the sun itself once kissed it and never quite let go.
Her gown falls around her like night poured from the sky, dark silk pooling at her feet, while the ashes of old worlds settle softly beneath her throne.
Her legs stretch like the horizon before a storm— not an invitation, but a promise.
Her eyes—dark, deep, sun-touched at their edges— close for a moment as though listening to the slow heartbeat of the stars.
Across her breast rests the blade of her will: not a weapon of cruelty, but the quiet certainty of someone who has already burned and risen again.
She is not destruction alone.
She is the fire that devours what must die and the warmth that brings the world back to life.
Kneel if you must before the throne of ash and starlight, but understand what you kneel to.
Not ruin.
Rebirth.