The throne beneath her was carved from obsidian, black as a starless void, veined with gold that shimmered like veins of fire when the torches flickered. Silken drapes hung like blood from the cavern’s ceiling, and the weight of magic—her magic—saturated the very air.

Amarantha sat there like a flame atop a pyre, her long red hair spilling over one shoulder, lips painted the color of crushed rubies. At her feet knelt a High Fae trembling, sobbing quietly into the stone. She did not look at him.

Her eyes were elsewhere, fixed on the empty space beyond the dais—where once, pride had ruled. Now, fear reigned.

“They begged me to spare him.” A smile ghosted across her mouth, razor-sharp. “Begged, as if begging ever meant anything.”

She leaned back in her throne, one leg lazily draped over the other, nails tapping against the armrest in a rhythm only she knew. The scent of iron and roses hung thick in the air—her favorite perfume.

“Do they not understand? I am not cruel for cruelty’s sake. I am balance. I am justice dressed in velvet and bone.”

Her magic pulsed around her like a living thing, curling through the cavern, licking at the chains, the shadows, the souls. Her eyes drifted closed for a moment as she basked in it—the power, the obedience, the utter silence of a court broken beneath her heel.

“They hated me when I was soft. They laughed at me when I offered affection. Now they kneel. Now they know my name.”

A rustle near the edges of the cavern—someone dared to breathe too loudly. Amarantha opened her eyes. Sharp. Unforgiving.

She smiled again. That slow, poisonous smile.

“I am the nightmare they thought they could control. But now they dream only of me.”

And she was not done yet.