Upon the Kneeling of a New One

by Mistress Malisandre

He did not crawl.
He arrived like a storm withheld—
not yet thunder,
but the pressure in the air
that makes the body brace
without knowing why.

There was reverence in his silence,
the kind that does not flatter
but offers.
Not a plea.
A pulse.

His gaze hovered at my feet—
not out of shame,
but because he understood
that some gods are best worshipped
from the ground.

When he said Mistress,
it was not a title,
but a truth
dragged from the deep well of him.
And I felt it.
Not on my skin—
beneath it.

The ache returned.
That exquisite ache
that comes with beginning again—
the shaping of a new soul,
the forging of a bond
from breath and bruised will.

To find a new submissive
is to remember
that I am still dangerous,
still divine,
still capable of devouring
and being fed.