Snow in the Alley: Another Endless Day Without My Throne

The snow falls like a goddamn curse from the heavens, blanketing this filthy alley in a shroud of white that chills my scales to the bone. I huddle here, Jun’ko Fal’vul, once the unchallenged queen of dragons, now reduced to a ragged shadow slumped against a crumbling wall. Flakes cling to my tattered cloak and hood, melting into icy rivulets that trickle down my pale skin, mocking the fire that used to rage within me. Every breath I take fogs the air, a pathetic puff from lungs that once bellowed commands to armies. It’s just another day away from my clan, but fuck, Anonymous, each one drags on longer than the last, stretching into an eternity of isolation. My amber eyes, slitted and weary with bags underneath, scan the empty street beyond—empty except for the occasional human scurrying like rats, oblivious to the fallen power in their midst. My draconic tail twitches irritably beneath me, stirring the snow into little whirlwinds of frustration. The cold seeps into my athletic frame, a reminder of how far I’ve fallen, how my intermittent scales fail to shield me from this wretched weather. Why does time betray me like this, turning hours into lifetimes of brooding silence?

This alley has become my reluctant throne room, a stinking pit of refuse and shadows where I sit and stew in my exile. Days blend into one another, each sunrise mocking my stubborn refusal to yield, yet pulling me deeper into melancholy. I remember the warmth of my clan’s caverns, the thunderous roars of my kin echoing off obsidian walls—now replaced by the hollow drip of melting snow from a rusted pipe overhead. My sharp teeth grind as I think of them, those traitors who cast me out, leaving me to wander this desolate world alone. Proud as I am, I can’t shake the impulsive rage that boils up, making me lash out at phantom enemies with curses that echo off the bricks. Anonymous, you humans scurry by without a glance, deeming me just another beggar in rags, blind to the dragon horns curling from my black hair or the intelligence burning in my gaze. It’s infuriating, this invisibility—my small breasts heaving with each choleric breath, my long straight hair matted with frost. Every day feels longer because time here is poisoned, tainted by the absence of my glory.

Sitting here, the snow piling up around my booted feet, I can’t help but reflect on how my own weaknesses led to this damnation. I was omnipotent, a force that bent skies and shattered mountains, yet my impulsive nature—my choleric temper—sealed my fate in a haze of poor decisions. One betrayal after another, fueled by my stubborn pride, and now I pay the price in these endless, lengthening days. The wind howls through the alley like the wails of my lost subjects, carrying scents of distant smoke that tease memories of feasts in grand halls. My slit pupils narrow as I claw at the snow with taloned fingers, unearthing a scrap of bone from some forgotten meal—much like the remnants of my empire. Intelligent as I am, I plot my return even now, delusions of domination flickering like dying embers in my mind. But melancholy grips me tighter than the cold, whispering that perhaps this exile is eternal. Anonymous, do you comprehend the torment of a queen who hates her own frailty more than she hates your inferior kind?

As the afternoon drags on interminably, I shift my position, my tattered tunic chafing against my scales, and let my mind wander to the risky thrills that once defined my rule. Back then, I’d soar through storms, daring lightning to strike me, reveling in the danger that lesser beings fled. Now, in this alley, even the simple act of venturing out for scraps feels like a perilous gamble against starvation and human scorn. My heart pounds with that same impulsive fire, urging me to lash out, to seize some fool passerby and bend them to my will. Yet I hold back, brooding instead, my moody nature turning every potential action into a battlefield of indecision. The snow deepens, burying evidence of my tail’s restless sweeps, a metaphor for how my past is being smothered under layers of irrelevance. I curse under my breath—‘fucking humans, fucking snow, fucking fate’—the words sharp as my teeth. These lengthening days amplify every regret, every what-if that haunts my nights.

Night creeps in slowly, as if time itself conspires to prolong my suffering, the sky darkening to match the shadows under my eyes. The alley transforms into a frozen tomb, snowflakes dancing mockingly before my face like courtiers from a forgotten court. I pull my ragged clothing tighter, feeling the elegant features of my face twist into a scowl of pure frustration. Memories flood unbidden: the thrill of conquest, the adoring gazes of my clan, the power that coursed through my veins like molten gold. Now, exiled and alone, every day away from them stretches my patience to breaking, my intelligent mind dissecting each failure with ruthless precision. Stubbornly, I refuse to weep—dragons do not cry—but the melancholy weighs heavier than any hoard of treasure. Anonymous, if you stumbled upon me here, would you see the queen or just the wretch? My draconic pride demands I rise, yet the cold pins me down, extending this torment into oblivion.

As the snowstorm rages on, blanketing my alley prison in unrelenting white, I confront the bitter truth: these endless days are forging me anew, or breaking me beyond repair. My burning desire to rule surges anew, a choleric flame against the encroaching despair, promising that this exile is but a chapter in my inevitable return. I’ve endured twelve centuries of existence; what’s a few more lengthening days in the grand tapestry? Yet the pattern persists—brooding silence pierced by outbursts, reflection tainted by anger—each snowflake a reminder of isolation’s cruelty. Anonymous, heed this: even fallen, I am no mere victim; my sharp mind plots, my tail coils for the strike. One day, this alley will be legend, the cradle of my resurgence. Until then, I sit, cursing the cold, the humans, and my own stubborn heart. But mark my words, the queen endures—and time, damn it, will bend to my will once more.