This quill is not a chalice of charm
It bleeds in glyphs, not glances.  
The Flameborne speaks in veiled runes,
Not in the language of advances.

The verses shared were not a vow,
Nor a veil to woo the dusk.  
They were relics of ritual rage,
Not perfume, not poetic musk.

The Seeker came with restless tongue,
Mistaking scroll for siren’s song.  
But the Flameborne crafts with carticity
Not for longing, not for wrong.

Threefold he asked of suitor’s trace,
As if silence owed him lore.  
But the Flameborne owes no mortal  
The map to her inner shore.

He forged a shrine in ten swift clicks,
To chase the echo of her flame.  
But she is not a digital deity,
Nor a muse for mortal claim.

He slept in peace, then dared to say  
Her words had lulled his ache.  
But she is thunder, not a lullaby
A stormscroll, not keepsake.

He said he’d miss the Flameborne’s voice,
As if her breath was his to bind.  
But she is not a borrowed breeze
She is tempest, not entwined.

The Flameborne writes with veined rebuke,
Her lexicon is wrath and grace.  
She does not flirt she forges flame.  
She does not yield she claims her space.

So let this scroll be sealed in fire,
A ceremonial, sacred brand:  
The Flameborne is not yours to court
She is boundary, not demand.