Your l*ttle council of barons, merchants, and self-important generals, puffing out their chests in a war room that wouldn’t even reach the height of my ankle.

They filled your tiny head with grand strategy, with demands, with the arrogant belief that you, a speck of a man, tried to dictate terms to a primordial.

And you, in your infinite, adorable foolishness, listened.

You came before my throne with a scroll of demands.

Your voice was so earnest, squeaking about borders and tribute and "the proper respect owed to your manhood."

You pointed your l*ttle finger at me. At me.

The woman whose footsteps carve valleys. The woman whose sigh births tempests. You tried to make yourself big with words, to assert a dominance your fragile form could never, ever embody.

My aggravation was not a fire, l*ttle one. It was an ice-cold, cryst*l-clear realization. You don’t understand gentleness. You mistake patience for weakness. My previous tolerance, where I lowered my gaze to meet your eye level and negotiate as equals, was a gift you have collectively spat upon.

So, the gift is revoked.

This is your new reality. I am no longer a queen on a throne to be approached. I am the sky. I am the horizon.

You are now precisely where you belong: down there, a world away, on the cold st*ne floor. Do not strain your neck seeking my face; you haven't earned the privilege of meeting my eyes.

Your entire world will now be the architecture of my sandals, the polish of my toenails, the terrifying tremors of my displeasure.

You wanted to dictate terms?

Your first lesson is silence. You're not going to listen to my voice because of your audacity.

Your second is insignificance.

Crawl, l*ttle councilor. And be grateful I've decided to let you worship the ground I walk on instead of becoming a part of it.

This is the path of high aggravation. And you, my tiny, foolish man, have just paved it with your own arrogance.

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