Running.

Sweat dripping.

Stomach sinking.

Uneven footing.

Heart palpitating.

Oh.

And hoping I don’t die.

The beast roars.

Except their words are perfectly carved,

ready to slice me like a knife.

This court is no less than a battlefield.

Thankfully,

the chance of the rolling thunk of

my petite head on the floor

is slightly more pretentious than

mediocre.

The sweat races down my golden skin,

towards gravity's direction.

With a gliding trickle on to the floor.

The crassness of the volume is unbearable.

But, I swear I can hear the

ripple of it like a pebble in a pond.

The dazzling light of gems

and intricate carvings of the beloved.

Hang overhead.

Someone said they were made

from the bones of many.

No matter if her majesty herself did it or not,

she most certainly has malice of the plenty.