Crow and Flame

She was not born
for peace.

She was forged
where steel met bone,
where battlefields drank blood
and crows fed beneath
the banners of kings.

The Morrigan came
with war in her mouth
and death beneath her wings.

She has worn scars
like armor.

Carried grief
like a sharpened blade.

Buried the dead
without lowering her eyes.

They tried to break her.

War tried.

Men tried.

The gods tried.

But some women
are not made to kneel.

Some are made
of battlefield iron—
tempered in fire,
hardened by loss,
and dangerous
when they rise.

The crows circle.

The battlefield burns.

And she stands
among the ruins,
blood-dark and breathing.

She is not what survived the war.

She is what the war
should have feared.