Cassandra feels it. She had felt it from the moment she crossed the threshold, an unnatural chill that wrapped around her bones like whispered warnings. The stone walls, worn by time, loomed high above her, their jagged edges catching the silver glow of the moon through shattered stained-glass windows.

There is a shift in the air.

A presence.

She turns sharply, fists raised—only to be met with eyes the color of a dying ember, staring at her from across the hall.

The woman is draped in a gown of deep blue, the fabric shifting as though caught in a wind that do not touch Cassandra. The edges of her form flickered, as if reality itself could not hold her.

Cassandra does not speak. She rarely does. Instead, she holds her ground, watching. Waiting.

The ghost—because what else can she be? She has heard of the anguished queen of this castle before—tilts her head, studying her just as intently. Then, in a voice like a song from another life, she murmurs,

"You carry the blood of kings, yet you walk like a blade unsheathed. Tell me, princess… will you be the one to finally break this curse?"

The Queen smiles, bitter and sharp. “It is a grave. A throne. A prison, And now, it is yours.”

Cassandra shivers, but not from fear. She has inherited this place, its history, its grief. And now, she stands before the one who had never left it.

With a breath, Cassandra finally asks: "Who are you?"