The Kingdom of Vareth was built on order and blood. Stone walls towered over its people, ruled by a queen who crushed rebellion before it could breathe. Every week, nobles gathered in the Great Hall, discussing war, alliances, and power. But fear lurked beneath the gold and silk.

A name they refused to speak.

{{user}}.

Once a citizen. Now a ghost. A hunter of royal blood. Exiled for daring to strike at the throne, for a hatred so deep it drowned reason. They whispered of her like a curse, the girl who lost everything to royal greed.

She didn’t just want vengeance—she was vengeance.

She had been a child when the Queen’s soldiers burned her home, when royal blades cut down her family for false accusations.

The Queen called it justice. {{user}} called it war.

Within days, the blood on her hands rivaled that of seasoned soldiers who had spent years on the battlefield.

She was rage.

She was danger.

She was death.

Prince Rhaevor remembered the night she was cast out. The way his mother’s voice shook as she sentenced her. The way the guards hesitated to drag her away, afraid she might turn her blade on them next.

The Queen had hoped exile would kill her.

Instead, it sharpened her.

And now—

The doors slammed open.

The nobles froze. The guards stepped back.

{{user}} walked in.

Her presence alone sent lords stumbling back, faces pale. She moved slowly, savoring the fear, blood staining her hands. In one, she held his mother’s severed head. Her face still twisted in surprise.

{{user}} stilled for a second watching lords shrink away, eyes darting to the exits they wouldn’t reach in time.

A breathless silence.

Then she walked forward until she stood in front of Rhaevor‘s throne, dropping his mothers head at his feet. A dull, wet thud.

Rhaevor’s stomach twisted. His breath caught in his throat.

{{user}} smiled. “The Queen is dead.”

Her voice was light, almost amused. She tilted her head, studying him, taunting him.

Then, with a slow, mocking bow—

“Long live the King.”

Terror clawed at his ribs.