The throne room lay in ruin. Shattered pillars leaned like broken bones, fire licked across the tapestries, and the scent of blood hung thick in the air. Rain seeped through the cracks of the ceiling, hissing when it struck the embers.

Alaric knelt in the wreckage, his armor dented, his lip split, his body beaten until even kneeling felt like defiance. His crown had been torn from his head, tossed somewhere into the shadows. The once-proud king now looked like nothing more than a man brought to his knees.

Before him stood Rynmar, his half-brother, blade slick with blood not his own. His smug smile curved cruelly as he paced, reveling in his triumph.

“She is gone, brother,” Rynmar drawled, voice echoing off the broken walls. “Your precious knight, your witch, your disgrace. I made certain of it. The men cut her down—her body lies cold among the rest. She bewitched you, and now her spell is broken.”

Alaric’s head bowed, dark hair falling into his eyes. His fists clenched against the marble floor, trembling not with weakness but with the effort of containing the roar inside him. He had lost battles, lost friends, but this—this was the knife to his heart. The woman he had loved against the will of all his court, the woman he swore to protect even if it meant burning the kingdom to ash—gone.

“You think yourself king now,” Alaric murmured hoarsely, voice raw with pain, “but you will never wear this crown as more than a thief.”

Rynmar smirked and lifted his sword, stepping closer. “Then watch, brother, as I cut away the last of your pride—”

The doors of the throne room burst open with a thunderous crash. Every man froze.

She stood there.

The knight. His knight.

Her pale hair whipped in the storm-wind pouring through the shattered archways, streaked with soot and blood. Her armor was blackened, scorched, torn in places, but she stood unbroken. Her eyes were cold, glacial, burning with a fury so sharp it silenced the room. She spoke no word—she didn’t need to.

The first man who dared to rush her fell before his sword even fully rose. She cut through him with terrifying ease, the steel of her blade singing as it tore. Another came, then another, and each one fell just as quickly. The throne room filled with the wet sound of steel meeting flesh, with screams cut short, with the metallic ring of blades shattered. She fought like vengeance itself, merciless and unstoppable.

Blood sprayed the marble. Ash and smoke swirled with the rain that fell from the broken ceiling. Still she advanced, cutting down every man who dared raise steel against her, until the only one left standing between her and the throne was Rynmar.

He snarled, stepping forward, raising his blade—but too late. She moved like a storm. A swift kick struck his chest, sending him sprawling backward across the floor, his weapon clattering from his hand. He slid until he hit a broken pillar, gasping for breath, staring up at her with wide, disbelieving eyes.

The silence that followed was deafening. Only the crackle of flames and the drip of blood broke it.

She turned then—finally—toward Alaric.

His breath caught. For a heartbeat, he could not move, could not think. She was alive. Against all the whispers, against all the cruelty of fate, she was alive.

Her expression softened as her gaze found him. The storm in her eyes calmed, and for him alone, a quiet warmth broke through. She lowered her blade, stepped forward, and offered him her hand.

Alaric stared at it, at her, as though afraid she might vanish into smoke. His hands trembled as he reached for hers, but when her fingers closed firmly around his, pulling him to his feet, strength surged back into him.

She gave him the faintest smile—soft, tender, almost shy in contrast to the carnage around them.

And in that moment, with blood at their feet and the kingdom collapsing into ruin, Alaric knew the truth he had always carried in his heart: he would burn the world to ash for her, and she would walk through fire for him.