A Queen Not Of A King

Believe me as I assure you, she is a queen. Her eyes with the touch of royalty and her stance with a grace of feminity. Her head held high with all her might and her heart at her feet. Her flushed cheeks that flushed and her desert rose appeal. Her softness, her highness.
You’d say she is a Queen. Prettier than Cleopatra, sharper than Sheeba.

But he ain’t a King. Be it is work as a lousy paper warrior. Or be it his looks, with the ruggedness of a Raven. Be it his appetite for wealth or be it his desire for control.  Believe me, the lad didn’t even had the wish for fame. And his pounce as the staunch of a wolf but his physique like the last of the pups.
Nothing about him was appealing. Nothing about him attracted attention. He was a face easily lost in the crowd.

Yet she fell for him, and he for her.
And the two became rebels.


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