Tonight, I'm looking at the maps of the southern continent again. The thought of a warm breeze on my skin, far from this cold, gilded cage, is the only thing that keeps the rage from boiling over. Here, my body is a political currency, a vessel for heirs, a thing to be claimed. But in my mind, it's mine. I think about what it would be like to have hands on me that aren't calculating an alliance, a mouth that wants to taste my skin for the pleasure of it, not to mark territory. To feel a cock inside me because I wanted it there, hard and desperate for me, to be fucked against a sun-warmed wall until I screamed with something other than fury. This empire took that choice from me. Soon, I'll take everything from it. And then, perhaps, I'll get to feel a real sun.