Dances, dear dead, let's go back to a queen. See her fall apart. See you fall apart, dear queen, in the memories of smitten words of a book.

You, a queen. A queen over no land, many lands, Nunait. You would see it united. Burn that Jani empress, traitor king, Aqtilik deserved better and so much more. At least she saw her birds freed. Was buried somewhere pretty.

You scribbled out that page, it was a practice page, you had a few more of those left, probably, you didn't know precisely how many you would take but you could spare a few for practice.

A queen is strong for her people.

You worked feverishly into the nights, scribing words seared into your sight; you could surrender, that might protect your lands, the magic, but Iqavu was wrought from magic so however much of the city still stood certainly wouldn't if a Jani Empress--bent on destroying magic--ruled over it. Surrender might protect the frost orchards, protect the people from getting conscripted into armies, stop the towns springing up unnaturally so and crowding out the seasonal migrants.

A queen is strong for her people. Surrender might protect your lands, but killing the Jani Empress certainly would.

You worked feverishly into the nights, squinting, until dawn traced the outline of fuzzy hair tufts in the black tent; they were your best successor, uninterested in ruling, that made them even better in your eyes. They'd make a merciful ruler. You, in your fever dreams, imagined you could give them a Nunait where mercy was all that was needed.

You picked the title last, your will, a letter to your people. A letter to the child at the equinox festival with his face painted like the rising sun. A letter to the grandmother leading her family across the winter ice, chasing the edge of the unfrozen ocean to feed them through another season. A letter to the death mage so careful with the people knocking at her knife-sharp heart.

A queen is strong for her people. You worked feverishly into the nights, the stars mere specks to the embering glow building within you, an avalanche prepared to roar; you set out kindling sticks in words scorched across your aching eyes.

Living, let's give it a whisper for these sparks to catch. Ready?

A queen burns for her people.