Strength Dwells Within My Scars
Each wound I carry is proof of survival. My scars are not weakness, they are testament.
Every kingdom falls. Every wall of certainty is ground to dust by the turning of the world. This is not tragedy, it is alchemy. The fire that consumes your palace is the same fire that tempers your spirit. Do not weep for the fallen stones. They were a cage you no longer need.
From the pyre of what was, a single ember remains. It is your will. Your refusal to be extinguished. This is the first jewel of your new crown. It glows not with the cold light of pride, but with the fierce, quiet heat of one who has faced the void and chosen to burn anyway.
To wear the Crown of Ashes is to accept a new kind of rule. You are the monarch of your scars, the sovereign of your silence. The wind may scatter your past, but it cannot unmake the throne you have built within your own bones. This is the ultimate power, the authority that follows annihilation.
You are not rebuilding. You are re-emerging. Your spirit, layered with the wisdom of loss and the strength of survival, becomes something new. Something that cannot be so easily broken again. The Crown of Ashes is the mark of this transformation, a testament that you have met the end, and began again.
Let the old worlds burn,
Let the thrones of pride turn to dust.
I am the ember that survives the fire,
The unyielding spark in the aftermath.
My crown is forged, my reign begins.
Each wound I carry is proof of survival. My scars are not weakness, they are testament.
Not all battles roar. Some are fought in stillness, with watchful eyes and a steadfast heart.
There is a weight you are offered from the moment you draw breath. It is not the weight of stone or steel, but of expectation.