The throne room reeked of death. Blood pooled beneath the golden dais. Torn banners of the royal house hung limply from the walls, their once-proud insignias now scorched and blackened. The air was thick with smoke and the metallic sting of blood and burnt flesh.
Marcella Valemont knelt on the cold, wet marble floor, trembling. Her silk gown torn and bloodstained, her once-gleaming crown lying discarded beside her.
Her breath came in short, frantic gasps, but no amount of air could fill her lungs.
Around her, bodies littered the room—the knights, soldiers, royal members. All gone.
The war had raged through her palace, but the real battle—her final battle—had already been lost.
Marcela had been a queen—a manipulative, cunning queen who bent the world to her will. And yet here she was, at the feet of the man she had wronged the most, begging for a life she had already ruined.
Duke Berith. The man who had won.
His obsidian armor glinted in the dim torchlight, streaked with blood that wasn't his own. His broad shoulders and towering frame made him seem less a man and more a devil, a living nightmare brought to life. His black eyes—cold, endless voids—burned into her as he descended the dais.
"Please," she rasped, her voice raw and broken. "Spare him."
Duke Berith loomed above her; his tall figure cloaked in shadow. His dark eyes bore into hers, cold and unfeeling, as if weighing the worth of her words.
"Spare him?" His voice like frost, sharp and deadly. "The same Lucian you discarded like a pawn in your little game for power?"
Her heart pounded violently in her chest. Marcella clutched at the edge of her ruined gown, trying to summon the strength to speak, but the words caught in her throat.
This was the end. She knew it as surely as she knew the blood on her hands.
Her lips quivered. "It wasn't supposed to be like this." she whispered, voice raw, as if saying the words would undo them.
Berith laughed. A slow, rich sound that reeked of victory. "Do you mourn the dead, Marcella? Or do you mourn the fact that they will never kneel before you again?"
Marcella clenched her fists. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her lose completely. Not yet.
"I never wanted this," she said, but the words felt hollow.
Berith crouched in front of her, tilting his head as if studying a curious specimen. "No? What did you want, then?" He brushed a strand of bloodied hair from her face, his touch gentle in a way that made her stomach turn. "Power? Glory? A throne built on the bones of those who loved you?"
Tears welled in her eyes, blurring her vision as she shook her head. Marcella wanted to argue, but deep down, she knew the truth. This wasn't just about his rebellion or the kingdom's fall.
This was about her. Her greed. Her selfishness. Her ambition.
She had ruined everything.
Lucian. Sweet, innocent Lucian. Marcella had dragged him into her schemes, seduced him into loving her, and abandoned him the moment she no longer needed him. His incorruptible soul had been shattered by her lies.
And now, even he had fallen. She had seen him being dragged from the battlefield; his body thrown before her like a trophy.
Marcella had told herself love was weakness. That devotion was a shackle she could never afford to wear. But as she remembered Lucian now, she realized—too late—that she had been wrong. So terribly, devastatingly wrong.
"Lucian," Marcella choked, the name slipping from her lips like a prayer. She raised her head to look at Berith, tears streaking her blood-stained cheeks. "Please."
His brow arched, "Please?" His armor creaking as he rested one gloved hand on the hilt of his sword. His face was so close now that she could see the faint scar cutting across his left cheek—a scar she remembered. A scar she had caused.
But it was his eyes that held her captive.
Black. Bottomless. Soulless.
His lips curled into a cold smile, but there was no warmth in it. "You would trade your life merely for him?"
Marcella nodded, the tears falling freely now. "Yes."
Her hands tightened into fists against the marble floor. Marcela wanted to deny it, to scream at him that it wasn't her fault, but she couldn't. She knew better.
It was her fault.
And now, with nothing left to bargain, nothing left to offer, she had only one thing she could do.
The corner of Berith's mouth twitched, and for a fleeting moment, she thought she saw something flicker behind his cold gaze. A shadow of emotion. Amusement, perhaps. Or pity.
"Very well," The faintest smile touched his lips. It wasn't kind. It wasn't warm. It was cold and cruel. "If you wish to die, I will grant you that mercy."
Before she could process his words, he moved.
His arms wrapped around her, pulling her into an embrace. For a fleeting moment, she felt the ghost of something familiar—the warmth of his chest, it felt almost… gentle.
But then a sharp pain speared through her stomach. She gasped, looking down to see the glint of steel buried deep in her flesh. Berith's blade.
Red-hot and searing, the dagger had ripped through her abdomen. Her hands flew to the hilt of the blade. Marcella coughed, blood bubbling at her lips.
Her body sagged forward, resting against his chest as the strength drained from her limbs. She could feel her life slipping away. Blood seeped through her gown. Her fingers slick with the warmth of her own blood spilling from the wound.
"Hush," Berith murmured, his lips brushing against her ear. His tone was soft, almost tender, but it was laced with cruelty. "You wanted to die, didn't you?"
Marcella tried to speak, but the words wouldn't come. Her vision blurred, her mind slipping into a haze of pain and regret.
She could feel his arms tightening around her, pulling her closer as if to savor the moment. The heat of his body was the last thing she felt, even as the cold began to creep into her veins.
"Goodbye, Marcella," Berith whispered.
The world began to fade. The pain ebbed, replaced by a strange, numbing emptiness. Her thoughts drifted, fragmented and incoherent, as darkness closed in around her.
Marcela thought of Lucian—his smile, his kindness, the way he had loved her despite all her flaws.
Then, she thought of Berith—the man she had loathed, feared, and betrayed. The man who had ultimately killed her.
And she thought of herself.
Not the queen, not the schemer, not the manipulator. Just Marcella.
She didn't want to die. Not like this. Not with her soul stained by her sins, her heart heavy with regret.
"If I had another chance," Marcela thought, her mind slipping further into darkness. "I would do better. I would…"
The words trailed off as the void consumed her.
But death wasn't the end.
~~~~~~~~~~
Pain.
It was the first thing Marcella felt. Not the searing agony of a fresh wound, but a dull ache, like an echo of death refusing to release her.
Marcella gasped as she bolted upright.
The memory of the blade was still there—a ghost of pain that made her hands shake as she clutched her stomach.
The wound—it was gone. No blood, no gaping tear in her flesh. Just the rapid hammering of her heart, the ghost of pain that refused to fade.
She was alive.
But how?
Marcella fluttered her eyes open. Her breath hitching as sunlight pierced through her eyelids. The warmth of the morning sun settled over her like a tender embrace.
For a moment, Marcela thought she was dead. No, she knew she was dead. She remembered the blood—her blood—pooling beneath her, staining the marble floor of the throne room.
And yet… she was here.
She blinked again, the bright light forcing her to squint. The familiar scent of beeswax candles and old wood tickled her nose, and when her vision cleared, she recognized the high, vaulted ceiling above her bed. The intricate carvings of angels and saints loomed over her, painted in rich gold leaf.
This was her room. Her room.