“And when they came to the place called Calvary, there they crucified Him.”

Luke twenty-three, verse thirty-three.

Narcissa…

Before we ever set foot on that hill, listen closely.

I want you to actually hear this — not through the filter of your ego, not through the crowd you perform for, but in that quiet place you never visit because you’re terrified of what lives there.

You were never chosen.

You were never called.

You were never meant to rise.

You built yourself out of scraps and stories, hiding the parts you hated under layers of paint and fabric.

And the world bought it because the world loves a pretty lie more than it loves an honest truth.

But I see you.

Not the colours.

Not the fashion.

Not the noise.

I see the girl who climbed out of a brothel and convinced herself that survival alone made her holy.

I see someone who mistakes attention for purpose, applause for righteousness, and sympathy for salvation.

You don’t fight for justice….you fight for eyes on you.

You don’t carry a message… you carry a mirror.

Everything you’ve ever done has been a performance.

You call it rebellion.

I call it fear.

And now you stand on the path to Calvary trying to act like you understand sacrifice.

You don’t.

You understand vanity.

You understand spectacle.

You understand how to make people look at you not how to carry anything real.

Calvary is not a stage.

It’s not a backdrop for your next pose.

It’s not a place to make a statement.

Calvary is where the truth stays standing and the lies get nailed in place.

Narcissa… you are a lie wrapped in glitter.

You talk like you’re saving Arcadia, but you couldn’t save yourself.

You lean on the Uprising like they’d bleed for you they wouldn’t.

You call yourself a survivor, but every step you took, you took from someone else’s back.

You weren’t reborn.

You were repackaged.

You weren’t enlightened.

You were loud.

You weren’t a leader.

You were a distraction…a painted prophet peddling a fake gospel to anyone desperate enough to listen.

And now the hill waits for you.

Not to lift you up.

Not to immortalize you.

Not to crown you as anything more than what you truly are.

A warning.

When we climb that hill, you won’t be standing as a queen or an icon or the martyr you pretend to be.

You’ll be stripped of every lie you ever told — to the world and to yourself.

Your rebellion ends on that wood.

Your persona ends on that wood.

Your name ends on that wood.

And when the nails go through your hands, when the noise finally dies, when the cold wind hits your body and you realize no one is coming to save you…

You’ll finally understand the truth. This hill never belonged to you.

It was always mine.

I don’t climb to die.

I climb to judge, to put your legacy right beside the thieves and the liars who came before you.

To let the wind strip the last of your illusions away.

Narcissa Balenciaga…

On Calvary, vanity doesn’t get resurrected.

It gets crucified.

May God have mercy on your soul… because I will not.