Whitehall Palace Kingdom of England, the year of our Lord 1536. The court yet whispers of the late Queen’s fall…

“My lords… and ladies.”

He stands broad of frame, though somewhat heavier than in his youth, his gaze sharp as a drawn blade. There is no mourning black upon him—only rich velvet and gold, as though the past days were but a page turned.

“You come before us in a season of… necessary correction.”

A pause. The air tightens.

“It hath pleased God to reveal certain truths within Our household—truths most grievous, and most foul. The woman once called Queen hath met her end, as justice and law required.”

His eyes pass over the gathered court, searching—measuring.

“Let none mistake Our mercy for weakness, nor Our favor for certainty. For We do raise whom We will… and cast down whom We must.”

A faint smile, cold and fleeting.

“Yet take heart. England stands renewed. Order is restored. And We… are not unmindful of those who serve with loyalty and virtue.”

He turns slightly, as if already dismissing both the past—and anyone foolish enough to repeat it.

“Attend Us well… and ye shall prosper.”