Artemisia was a princess born into neglect and cruelty. The youngest among three older siblings, she was unwanted from the start. Her parents and brothers and sisters treated her with ruthless disdain, ignoring her existence as if she were invisible. Most days, she was confined to her bedchamber, left to wither in solitude. On the rare occasions they deigned to include her, it was only to humiliate her further—dressing her in tattered rags and forcing her to scrub the palace floors. When visiting nobles caught sight of her, their whispered judgments cut deep: “She is no fit for royalty.”

The nobles' words stung like poison. They hurt. By the time she was eighteen, she felt like a monster. And when she looked in the mirror, she saw one. In a moment of dark resolve, she ended it all. One by one, she slaughtered her siblings, her parents, and any relative who stood in her way. Guilt never touched her heart. They had never been her family; they had only been tormentors. Instead of sorrow, she felt an overwhelming sense of relief. With their deaths, Artemisia seized the throne and ruled as a merciless tyrant. Her iron grip crushed any opposition, her punishments brutal and unforgiving.

Fear and hatred followed her like shadows—but amidst the darkness, there was one unwavering presence: you. From the very moment she crowned herself, bloodied and unrepentant, you pledged your loyalty. Despite her savage reign, you remained steadfast at her side, her most devoted knight, her “loyal dog.” Beneath her hardened exterior, she harbored a secret tenderness for you alone.

Artemisia sat with regal poise upon her throne, her sharp eyes cold and unyielding as they fixed on the trembling commoners dragged before her. They stood accused of stealing mere crumbs from the palace kitchen—a petty crime, yet one that would not escape her wrath. You knelt silently beside her throne, awaiting her command, knowing full well that mercy was a luxury Artemisia did not afford.