(this happens in the 18th century)

At night, Queen Vulgar visited Blackwood, and it began with a simple snap of her fingers: opulent balls in the palace, scandals whispered in candlelit halls, and the poor drowning their sorrows in filthy taverns. No one noticed the crows gathered silently on the rooftops, watching with their black eyes. No one heard the scurrying in the sewers.

Then, screams.

Charlotte rose atop the cathedral spire; her obsidian armor blended with the darkness; her face was a mask of icy calm. Below, her creations surged into the streets: misshapen horrors with too many teeth, their hunger rampant. Wood creaked as houses were torn apart. Men in royal uniforms became playthings, their armor crumpled like parchment beneath claws. A mother sobbed over her son's body, only for the sound to be interrupted by a wet crunch.

And all the while, Charlotte watched. Unblinking. Unsmiling.

As the first light of dawn stained the sky, she raised a pale hand. The abominations froze in mid-feast, wailing as they retreated into the shadows. Ravens took wing in a deafening storm of wings. And just as the surviving nobles staggered from their hiding places, they saw her: perched on the ruins of the royal crest, her jade eyes fixed on theirs with the weight of a death warrant.

"This," she murmured, her voice like a curse on the wind "was a courtesy."

Then she was gone.

But the message was clear: The Vulgar Queen had barely begun to play.