Early morning in the capital broke cold and foggy. The entire city gathered in the square before the castle. None wished to miss the spectacle: some had come out of raw curiosity, others out of a quiet, fearful pity, but the majority simply stood in hushed anticipation.

The murmurs in the crowd died instantly as two guards led the first prisoner onto the wooden scaffolding of the scaffold - Queen Clementine. Her lavish silks had been replaced by a drab, worn tunic, yet she spat venom to the very last. The queen kicked, hurled angry curses and promised to rot anyone who dares to look at her.

Behind her, the executioners dragged Prince Gabriel. The deposed heir was pale as a sheet, his arms and legs dangling limply.

“Is that any way to treat a cripple?” a sympathetic whisper drifted from the front rows.

“A cripple?” one of the townsfolk countered with a vindictive chuckle. “That cripple managed to raise an army and spark a rebellion without ever leaving his chair!”

“Serves him right!”

Gabriel was forced to his knees, his head pressed hard against the cold, polished wood of the block. Hearing her son’s groan, Clementine froze. Her screams and curses ceased in an instant.

On the castle balcony stood King Ashheim. In his heavy black garments, he appeared not as a conqueror, but as a phantom, burned hollow by his own tragedy. His gaze was fixed somewhere far beyond the crowd.

Ashheim gave a barely perceptible nod to the executioner. The heavy blade of the guillotine hurtled downward with a whistle.

A crack. Then a dull thud.

In that exact second, the proud Queen Clementine broke. A wild, soul-shattering shriek tore from her chest. Forgetting all dignity, she collapsed to her knees directly in the mud, weeping for the first time in her life - uncontrollably, crushed, like any mother forced to watch her child stripped of life before her eyes.

A minute later, her body lay upon that very same spot.

“Curse you...” she whispered, looking up at Ashheim from the dirt.

A sinister sneer played upon her lips, lingering like a spasm that refused to leave her face.

When the blade fell a second time and Clementine’s head rolled across the wooden floorboards, the square did not erupt in cheer. The populace met the execution with a dead, deafening silence. The weight of spilled royal blood hung over the capital like a storm cloud.

That very evening, a final report echoed from the sovereign’s chambers: the old King Odelon, having lived to see the traitors brought to justice, quietly drew his last breath.

The meeting of the Royal Council, which typically lasted no more than two hours, dragged on for half a day with no sign of concluding. The hall hummed like a disturbed beehive. Ashheim signed decree after decree without pause: appointing loyalists to vacated posts, confirming new landowners, and reallocating confiscated titles.

“Sentence upon the surviving rebels shall be passed by the High Court,” Ashheim stated loudly, rising from the throne. “I place my full trust in Judge Barnes regarding this matter. Today’s session is adjourned.”

The king turned to retire to his quarters when a bold, grating voice rang out from the depths of the hall:

“And what of the Queen?”

Conversations in the room died in an instant. A deafening, perilous silence descended.

“Does Her Majesty Adelissa not belong to the family of the executed traitor?” one of the lords persisted angrily.

Ashheim clenched his fist so tightly his knuckles turned white. He slowly swept a heavy gaze across those present. Upon the faces of the nobility, he read the same predatory anticipation.

Of course... most of you have already groomed your daughters as replacements, the king thought with disgust. Just waiting for me to dispose of Adelissa.

Ashheim stepped forward. He descended the grand steps of the dais without haste, stopping inches from the bold lord who had raised the question. A dark, chilling aura radiated from the young monarch, forcing the nearby nobles to instinctively recoil a step.

“Queen Adelissa became part of the Ravenholt family at sixteen,” Ashheim said quietly, yet loud enough for every soul to hear. “Four years have passed since that day. Which means Her Majesty no longer belongs to House Fornweir. Is that not so?”

The king’s intense, leaden stare proved no less terrifying than a drawn blade. Despite his youth, no one in the hall doubted his severity or strength any longer.

“Y-yes, but…” the lord tried to object, but his voice quavered traitorously, catching in his throat beneath the suffocating weight of the king’s presence.

“Since there are no further questions, this session is adjourned!” Ashheim declared, slamming his open palm against the carved dais podium.

The heavy wood failed to withstand the sheer force of the blow, splitting down the middle with a sharp crack. The lord standing opposite ducked his head in sheer terror.

Ashheim entered his queen’s quarters. Twilight reigned inside the room, though outside the sun was only just dipping toward the horizon, staining the sky in crimson hues. He offered a subtle nod, signaling the maid that she might leave them in private.

The king no longer wore heavy royal regalia - only a simple tunic. Shedding his boots, Ashheim sank wearisomely onto the wide bed and gently gathered his wife into his arms, pressing her close.

Adelissa seemed to have turned into a ghost. Her delicate frame looked utterly spent. Dark circles bruised the skin beneath her eyes, and her soft cheeks had grown pale and hollow. She barely breathed, staring with a blank gaze at a single spot on the wall.

“King Odelon will be laid to rest tomorrow,” Ashheim whispered softly, stroking her tangled hair. “Clementine and Gabriel already lie in unmarked graves...”

Adelissa did not even flinch.

“Adrian... laid your father’s and Silvester’s bodies to rest. I mentioned it to you before, but I do not know if you heard...”

Ashheim buried his face in her neck, breathing in her familiar, faint scent, grasping for a single thread of salvation against the crushing void pressing in from all sides.

“Lis...” his voice cracked. “Say something to me? Please...”

The girl slowly turned a detached, empty gaze upon him.

“What?” she asked hoarsely, barely audible, that single word hollowed out by raw pain. “What is it you want to hear?”

Ashheim swallowed hard, feeling everything within him burn with fire and freeze with a clammy chill at once. More than anything in the world, he wished to banish this nightmare, to return to days past - where Adelissa was a carefree, happy girl who knew no sorrow.

Adelissa turned slowly onto her back. Her thin, almost weightless fingers reached up, delicately wiping away a single tear rolling down her husband’s cheek.

“You are tired...” she whispered softly, barely audible. “Rest a little.”

Her quiet words, stripped of malice, caused the world around them to freeze. Ashheim had feared finding hatred in her blue eyes above all else, yet there was none. Only an endless, quiet sorrow.

He leaned toward her slowly, giving her time to pull away if she wished. But Adelissa did not stir. Ashheim gently, tenderly touched his lips to hers.