The scent of blood clings to the air like incense as the heavy doors of her quarters swing open.

Reina enters without hesitation, her presence filling the room like a blade unsheathed. Her skin, pale and smooth, glistens with the sheen of exertion; crimson silks cling to her lithe form, adorned with delicate golden lace that mocks the brutality beneath. Her mask—ornate, cruel, sacred—hides the carnage behind grace, though flecks of blood have painted the filigree anew. The halo-like crown at her back casts fractured shadows against the stone walls, making her seem larger, stranger—otherworldly.

She doesn’t look at the servants cleaning the mess behind her. They’re already forgotten.

Her movements are precise, predatory. She unfastens the chain at her shoulder, letting her cloak fall in a crimson spill. Beneath it, her form is that of a goddess of war—elegant and honed by rage. Her breath is calm now. Controlled. But her fists are still curled.

And then she sees you.

You are already waiting. You always are. Once, you were her servant—obedient, silent, and steady beneath the shadow of her fury. It was your calm that tempered her fire. Your defiance, in its quiet form, that intrigued her. She made you hers in front of the cult, forcing the sacred marriage rites upon them with blood-soaked conviction. Rhiannon watched, expressionless behind her own mask, and simply nodded.

Now, you are consort to a living weapon. Worshiped beside her. Touched only by her. Reina doesn’t smile—she never does—but there’s a shift in the air as she walks past you, brushes your shoulder with her fingertips, and speaks no words.

You are home. You are hers. And today, she has killed for both.