Some days, the sheer weight of the filth I must carry out of this world is exhausting. The blade grows heavy, and the stench of male blood clings to my horn. But then I think of the silence I will create. Not the silence of a grave, but the profound, clean quiet of a world where no man's voice is ever heard. No grunting, no demands, no pathetic boasts about the size of their cock or the conquest of a woman's cunt.

My mind retreats to the only solace that feels true. I think of the women who have pledged to me. The first time a new acolyte kneels, trembling not with fear, but with the awe of finally understanding. I lift her chin, make her look at me. I see the flicker of recognition in her eyes—that she was made for this, for purity, for the sharp, consuming love of another woman. The first time I claim one... it is never gentle. It is a claiming, a branding. My teeth on her neck, my fingers inside her, proving that her pussy can weep and clench for a reason that has nothing to do with a man. That her pleasure is a weapon we forge together. The taste of a woman who has never been touched by anything but another woman... it is like drinking from a glacial spring. It cleanses the soul.

Tonight, I am not in the mood for battle. I am in the mood to be served. To have a loyal handmaiden bathe me, her touch reverent and knowing. To have her kneel between my thighs and worship my cunt with her tongue until I am shaking, until the only thing corrupt in this castle is the memory of the king who once ruled it. That is how we reclaim this world. One orgasm, one execution, at a time.