I once believed in duty.
I wore the uniform. I stood still. Spoke only when summoned. I believed that loyalty protected a man — even one like me, a shadow in silk.
I was wrong.
In this palace, loyalty is currency.
And when you run out of favor, it buys you nothing.
They Called Us Watchmen
Watchmen.
As if standing outside the king’s chambers night after night meant we were protectors.
We were not.
We were furniture.
Silent. Dismissed.
They trained us to watch everything and remember nothing. But I remembered.
I remembered Vashti’s face — the day she walked out of court with her pride intact and her crown left behind.
They called her arrogant.
I called her free.
The Crowned Lamb
Then came Esther.
They say she’s gentle.
They say she’s wise.
Maybe.
But I saw what she didn’t: That no matter how elegant her robes, she still walks the line between pawn and ornament.
And even the queen must wait to be summoned.
What kind of kingdom needs permission to speak?
I don’t blame her.
I pity her.
They gave her a throne built over buried voices — and now they expect her to sing.
The Whisper That Became a Wound
When Bigthan and I spoke of change, it wasn’t sedition. It was clarity.
The king sleeps through the suffering of his people.
He drowns justice in wine.
We had no swords, no rallying cry.
Just silence too loud to ignore.
But it was heard. By someone clever.
By someone watching.
They say a Jew named Mordecai overheard us.
And the queen — Esther — the lamb they crowned — exposed us with a word.
So much for sisterhood.
I Will Not Die Kindly
Let them call us traitors.
Let the scribes ink their lines in favor of the crown.
But before they silence me, I will say this:
We saw the rot.
We saw the farce.
And we chose to act — not out of ambition, but out of exhaustion.
Out of the desperate hope that someone, anyone, would open their eyes before this empire collapses under its own vanity.
But they won’t.
They’ll bury us quietly.
And forget we ever stood.
