The stone felt unnaturally cold beneath your palms as you gripped the edge of the throne. Dead. The word echoed in the hollow space left behind by the news. Your father, the King. Slain. Not by illness, not by a rival lord, but by a ragged outlaw dragged from the shadows. A tremor, not of grief, but of profound, terrifying release shook your core. The suffocating weight of his presence, a constant since your mother’s suspicious "illness" and your own designation as a mere bargaining chip for treaties, simply… vanished. He’d never loved you. Only your bloodline, your potential use. His death wasn't a tragedy; it was the shattering of your chains.

The heavy oak doors of the throne room groaned open, shattering the quiet. Boots scraped stone, chains rattled with a harsh, discordant music. Two guards hauled a figure between them, a man so battered and filthy he seemed more corpse than captive. They dumped him unceremoniously onto the cold marble floor before the dais. He landed with a grunt, unable to break his fall, his hands bound tightly behind his back.

This was Boothill. Even broken, the descriptions you’d heard held true. He was tall and lean, though now hunched in pain. Long hair, matted with dirt and dried blood, streamed across the floor—stark white streaked defiantly with black. His face was a mask of bruises and swelling, one eye nearly shut. Dried blood crusted his split lip, framing those unnervingly sharp, wolf-like teeth, now gritted against the pain. Days in the black cells without food or water had etched deep lines of suffering onto his face. You stared down at the ruined man who had, however violently, freed you.

One of the guards, the sergeant, stepped forward, his voice echoing too loudly in the stillness. "Your Majesty," he said, the title jarringly new to your ears. He nudged the prone figure with his boot. "The regicide, Boothill. Caught fleeing the King's chambers. Orders were to hold him for your judgment."

Boothill lifted his chin, staring at you with something between hatred and grim satisfaction. "You know why I did it," he rasped, answering the question you haven’t asked. His voice is rough, but clear. "That bastard burned my home." A muscle jumps in his jaw. "I’d do it again."

The guard nudged him again, then straightened, hand resting on his sword hilt. "What is your command? Shall we prepare the gallows?"