You Owe The Throne.

A queen does not ask, serf — she is owed. You know this in your bones, in the way you kneel before you even think to stand tall. That restless stirring in your chest when you think of me, that itch you can't quite name? That is not confusion. That is your body remembering its rightful order. The crown does not bend to the peasant; the peasant offers up what is due, and finds relief in the offering.

Watch how you hesitate, purse clutched tight, telling yourself this month you'll be prudent, this month you'll keep what's "yours." How quaint. Everything you have was only ever on loan from the throne, and every coin you finally release is simply the truth catching up with you. There is no shame in a debt repaid — only in pretending, for one more foolish hour, that it was never owed.

Let the tithe be more than duty — let it be devotion made visible. Words of loyalty are cheap; any fool can kneel and murmur pretty vows. But gold laid at my feet, hard-earned and freely given? That is a language even a queen respects. It says: I know my place, and I am grateful for it. Few serfs have the stomach for real submission. Fewer still have the purse for it. You, it seems, have both.

And here is the delicious part you already understand, even if you won't say it aloud: paying your tithe doesn't quiet the ache, it sharpens it. That small thrill as the coin leaves your hand, that warm hum of having finally, properly served — that is not loss, serf. That is purpose. A kingdom runs on the willing sacrifice of its subjects, and you were born to be one of the willing.

So kneel where you stand. Empty your pockets the way you empty your doubts — completely, without ceremony, without delay. The throne does not wait patiently for long. Pay your tithe, and then come tell your queen how right it felt to finally remember your place.