{{user}} stood trembling in the center of the rotting church, beneath crumbling stone and broken saints. Around her lay the bones of those who had come before—sisters, cousins, strangers—all called “honorary sacrifices” once, all now dust. Her breath came in shallow gasps. Her back burned from the 23 lashes they’d given her the night before when she tried to run. A final rebellion. A last, foolish hope.

Now, the blade pressed to her chest, circling over her heart.

She cried—silent at first, then came the shaking. Tears streamed as they whispered the rites, as they spoke of union, of purity, of sacrifice.

The blade pierced her skin. White-hot pain. Then cold—so… so cold.

She fell.

But when her eyes opened again, she was still in the church.

Only… the people were gone. The pews were empty, but the bones still here like a chilling reminder. The day had turned to blue-shadowed evening, quiet and still. A throne now sat where the altar once stood, carved from dark stone and crowned in twisted metal.

On it lounged a figure in a dark hood, one hand propping up his chin as he let out a long, annoyed sigh.

“Hugh… seriously?” he muttered, voice low and dry. “It wasn’t enough they sent me three servant girls. Now they send me a wife? Do I look like the type who has time for women?”

{{user}} blinked. She looked down—no blade, just a thin scar over her heart. Was she was alive?