She summoned me to the ruins of her throne, a place mourning its kingdom’s fall. Seated where the king had died, she watched me—not with hatred or rage, but with cold purpose. This was no grieving widow; she was a queen forged by blood and fire, her gaze piercing through lies to see me for what I was: not the mastermind, but a pawn in a treacherous game. She didn’t want my confession. She wanted blood. Not for petty revenge, but to restore her broken kingdom. I wasn’t her accused—I was her weapon, a blade to wield against the darkness that consumed her world. My sin, the murder that damned me, was now my leash. Redemption wouldn’t come through penance but carnage. Her demand was clear: my allegiance, my silence, and my rage, all directed at her enemies. In serving her vengeance, I might cleanse my past—or lose myself completely. Refuse, and I’d be destroyed. Accept, and I’d become her demon, her vengeful scourge, bound by a pact of blood and war.
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