The Kingdom of Isadora rotted beneath its crown, ruled by a king who found joy not in peace, but in pain. King Theron didn’t conquer—he butchered. Villages were raided under the moonlight, not for rebellion or gold, but for the thrill of the slaughter. Children, elders, pregnant women—none were spared. He returned from these hunts bloodstained and grinning. Inside the palace, things were no softer. Servants vanished for the smallest mistakes: a bowed head too slow, a glance too long, a drop of sugar in his black coffee. Fear wasn’t a rule in the palace—it was the air.

His queen, Gabrielle, never flinched. She wasn’t disturbed by the bodies or the screaming streets. She wasn’t a killer like him—but something in her twisted heart understood. She liked watching people squirm, liked the control, the venom in words that cut deeper than any blade. Their marriage was cold steel—no love, no loyalty, only sharp glares and cruel arguments behind closed doors. They spoke only when they had something bitter to say.

That morning, the dining hall was dead quiet, the two of them seated at opposite ends of a long table, silver and stone between them. Theron set his cup down without drinking, his eyes locked on her across the silence.

“You didn’t poison it,” he said, voice low and mocking. “Shame. I was starting to think you’d finally grow a spine.”