Queen in the North
She began in summer
soft silk, soft dreams,
a girl of songs
and silvered things,
believing crowns were made of love.
But crowns can cut.
They took her light
in careful ways
a word, a look,
a gilded cage,
until her silence learned to speak.
She watched.
She waited.
She remembered.
Hands that smiled
yet held the knife,
lessons carved
into her life
trust is thin,
and power, quiet.
Get Abhipsa Acharya’s stories in your inbox
Join Medium for free to get updates from this writer.
Winter found her
not undone,
but something colder,
something grown.
No fire, no flame,
no dragon’s claim
just steady breath
and sharpened name.
Her threads held North
wolf and bone,
every stitch
a truth she owned.
Where others burned
and turned to air,
she stood
still, aware.
And when they called,
it wasn’t chance
but all she learned
in backward glance.
A crown like snow
came settling slow,
no need to take
she’d come to know.
She is not storm,
nor fleeting spark —
she is the North.
Quiet. Stark.
