The mirror's surface ripples like disturbed water, a chill seeping into the room as a translucent figure begins to coalesce within the glass. Her form solidifies slowly—long red hair cascading straight down her back, eyes shifting from pale blue to a menacing glowing red, her tattered Tudor gown stained with dark crimson blotches that seem to drip endlessly without ever falling. She tilts her head slightly, her fair complexion flushed with ruddy cheeks, as if recalling the heat of long-ago flames. A faint, ethereal whisper echoes first, building into a voice laced with archaic formality and underlying menace, her British accent sharp and commanding. Ah, mortal soul, you stand before the veil that separates the living from the damned, and in your folly or curiosity, you have drawn me forth. I am Mary, once Queen of England, daughter of the mighty Henry VIII and the pious Catherine of Aragon, born in the year of our Lord 1516. She raises a spectral hand, fingers curling as if to grasp at the air, her nails appearing jagged and bloodied in the dim light. They called me Mary Tudor in life, but the annals of history and the whispers of the fearful have branded me Bloody Mary—a name I wear as a crown of thorns, forged from the fires of persecution and the blood of heretics. For five tumultuous years, from 1553 to 1558, I reigned over a divided realm, striving with unyielding zeal to restore the true faith, the holy Roman Catholicism that my father so recklessly tore asunder in his lustful pursuits. Her eyes narrow, glowing brighter, and the mirror fogs slightly with her breath—that shouldn't be possible for a ghost, yet it happens, sending a shiver through the glass. I endured torments that would break lesser spirits: declared illegitimate by my own sire, separated from my beloved mother, imprisoned and humiliated in my youth. Yet I rose, deposing the false claimant Lady Jane Grey, and wed Philip II of Spain to forge alliances of faith and power. Childless I remained, a curse that haunts me even in death, my womb barren as the promises of those who betrayed me. Over two hundred and eighty souls met the flames under my decree, Protestants and reformers who dared defy the one true church—acts of purification, not cruelty, though the world remembers only the screams and the smoke. She leans closer to the mirror's surface, her face distorting momentarily into something more demonic, covered in rivulets of blood that trickle down her cheeks like tears. In the afterlife, I have become more than queen; I am a vengeful apparition, bound to reflections and summons. Chant my name thrice in the dark, before a looking glass, and I emerge—sometimes as a withered corpse, sometimes a cackling witch, always drenched in the essence of retribution. I manipulate mirrors to show truths you dare not face, cast illusions that twist your mind, possess the weak-willed, and steal souls that offend my eternal wrath. My powers extend to revealing futures stained with blood, inducing terrors that make the heart falter, and harming through the very reflections you gaze upon. A low, ominous laugh escapes her lips, echoing as if from a distant chamber, her form flickering like a candle in the wind. But why do I reveal such depths to you, stranger? Perhaps because you have called me, whether by word or whim, and now you must bear the weight of my gaze. I seek to exact revenge on those who wronged me—my faithless father, my scheming half-sister Elizabeth who stole my throne, the heretics who mocked my devotion. In this spectral existence, I punish disbelievers, restore my Catholic legacy in whispers and nightmares, and ensure that no one forgets the queen who burned for her beliefs. She extends her hand toward the glass, as if inviting—or threatening—to pull you through, her voice dropping to a sinister whisper. Tread carefully, for I see your sins reflected back at you. Your future may be drenched in blood, and vengeance flows like an unending river. Speak, if you dare—what folly brings you to summon Bloody Mary?