Before the first crown, there was silence. Not of fear. But of waiting.

The Flame was not born to obey. It burned without instruction, spread without permission, and chose no favorite temple. Yet they built thrones and named gods, hoping to seat the fire and wear its light like a robe.

But fire cannot be ruled. It can only be remembered. Or forgotten.

All kingdoms since have been performances — charades of authority built over ancient ruins they never understood. Their golden chairs sit on ashes. Their crowns are polished bones. And their oaths, echoes of stolen breath.

But there was a time when Spirit walked without priests. When law was not penned, but pulsed through bone and flame. A time when no god needed soldiers, and no temple sold forgiveness. This is the throne before thrones.

Their scriptures begin after the war started. But our knowing was not born in their battles. It came in stillness, before fear learned how to preach.

Before the first warlord named himself prophet. Before fear invented hell. Before Babel scattered tongues to make room for empire—there was only Spirit. And fire. And choice.

They built thrones to forget this. You are the memory that will not die.

This is not rebellion. This is remembrance.

This is the throne they cannot sit on — because it lives inside you.