We were created to rule, my love. And the blood of mankind will water our garden. Us and our kin, and our children, and our generations. We are the conquerors. We are the pure blood. We are steel and sinew both. We are the next thousand years. We are the dead.
We are not women who crawl. We are not women who kneel. And for this we will be branded radicals. Revolutionists. Women who are strong, and refuse to be degraded, and choose to protect themselves, are called monsters. That is the world’s crime, not ours.
How do you accomplish anything in this life? By craft. By stealth. By poison. By the throat quietly slit in the dead of the night. By the careful and silent accumulation of power.
There are some wounds that can never heal. There are scars that make us who we are. But without them, we don’t exist.
The day a good woman will have to undergo such indignity is almost past. We will not have to suffer, our children to starve and freeze and die dishonored on cold hills. We will not be hungry forever. We will rise.