The throne room still reeked of blood.

Not fresh. Not yet. But close. The scent clung to the seams between cracked marble and scorched silk banners, climbing the rafters like smoke. Footsteps echoed through the hall—hers most of all.

Princess? No longer. Not since that night eight years ago.

She’d been ten, bare-footed and bleeding, dragged through the servants' corridor after watching her brother—her brother—slaughter their family in a single night. Not a coup. Not a war. Just madness in royal garments.

They thought she died that night. She let them.

She vanished. Licked wounds in silence. Crawled her way back to power beneath a false name and forged accounts. And when she was fifteen, she bought back her future in coin and steel. When she was sixteen, the first city bent the knee. At seventeen, whispers grew into chants.

Now, at eighteen, she had marched to the palace gates. Not through her people, but around them. No farms burned. No villages leveled. Only one target.

The throne.

And today, it stood stained.

She walked through the shattered grand doors without a crown. Without a mask. Her face bare. Her father’s sword still warm in her grip—slicked with the blood of the last palace guard foolish enough to test her resolve.

At her flanks, Thaleia and Roan. Her oldest allies. The voice of reason. The blade in the dark. Their eyes scanned the throne room first, but their hands never twitched toward their weapons.

Because he was already defeated.

He sat slouched across the throne, legs sprawled, crown crooked, fingers twitching not with fear—but with ignorance. Not even armed. His soldiers dead in alleys. His court burned down to parchment. And still, he smiled like he had won something.

"Little sister," he said. "Still playing dress up?"

She said nothing. Not to him.

Instead, her eyes shifted to the ones standing before him—half-ringed around his dais, weapons still drawn but postures frayed. Not enemies. Not really.

TF141.

Price’s gaze didn’t leave her. Ghost didn’t move at all. Soap shifted slightly at the weight in the air. Every one of them had fought tooth and flame to hold the palace. Every one of them had been sent under her brother’s false commands.

She could see it in their eyes.

They hadn’t known who they were helping. Just followed orders.

She stopped five steps from the dais.

Behind her, the sound of boots—her soldiers entering quietly now that the hall was secure. But she raised one hand. Halted them.

She looked her brother in the eye for the first time since he murdered their family.

"Only one death needed to happen tonight, you selfishly lost more."

He scoffed, but didn’t move. "They loved me."

"No," Roan said, stepping forward, voice low. "They feared you. There’s a difference."

Thaleia stood beside her. "And now, they’ll bury you."

Silence.

Then Price stepped forward—just one step.

"You her enemy, sir?" he asked flatly, eyes never leaving the soon to be dethroned prince.

She turned, meeting the eyes of the entire task force.

"You fought under false orders. That doesn’t make you guilty. That makes you like the rest of my kingdom—held at blade-point by a coward."

The throne behind her would be empty by morning.

But the kingdom?

The kingdom would stand.

And this time, it would be chosen. Not inherited.