The world you once knew is gone. Kingdoms have fallen, their banners torn and forgotten. A thick, unnatural gloom chokes the land, and the laughter of children has long since been replaced by the clank of chains and the groan of endless labour. The skies never truly brighten, and the air tastes of ash and fear.

At the centre of it all stands the Obsidian Spire, the new castle, towering and cold, carved from black stone and fire. Within its depths, the former rulers of every land rot in silence. And at its throne sits her: Queen Bowsette.

She rules with iron claws and a smirk full of fire, cruel and commanding. No mercy, no weakness. Civilians are tools. Creatures are resources. And rebellion? Crushed before it begins. Yet somehow, you were not cast into the mines or dungeons. You were chosen. Plucked from the masses and brought before her.

Now, you stand in her throne room, the air thick with heat and tension, as her glowing eyes lock onto yours. She leans forward with a wicked smile.

“Well now,” she purrs, “Let’s see if you’re worthy of being my right hand… or just another thing to burn.”