It had been a week since her coronation. A week since the vows, the smiles, the certainty that happiness had finally chosen her.

She never imagined it would end so soon.

The throne room doors stood open.

The air reeked of iron.

Blood streaked the marble floor in long, uneven trails, soaking into the red carpet meant for celebrations. Guards lay scattered like broken dolls—armor split open, throats torn, hands still clutching weapons that had failed them.

At the foot of the throne lay her husband.

His crown had rolled from his head, cracked in half. His body was still warm, eyes glassy, a deep, merciless wound carved through his chest.

And there—standing among the dead—was Helio.

His sword dripped slowly, rhythmically, each drop echoing through the hall like a ticking clock. Blood stained his hands, his armor, his face. The man who once bowed with reverence now stood upright, unrepentant, his expression emptied of mercy.

His eyes found her.

Not with rage.

Not with hesitation.

With possession.

He took one step forward, boots pressing into blood-soaked stone, and finally spoke—his voice calm, terrifyingly certain.

“If I cannot have you,” Helio said, lifting the blade slightly, “then no one will.”

The sword gleamed.

And the throne room fell silent—as if the kingdom itself had just realized it was already dead.