I couldn't believe it. I was standing in the same room as the man who had killed my husband.
A mere week had passed since the God King of Toltaria had declared my husband guilty of treason—of the highest order, he proclaimed, his voice booming across the square. The accusation still rang hollow in my ears. My husband, the man I had shared my bed with, whose steady hand I had clung to through the storms of our lives, was no traitor. But that didn't matter. The God King's word was law.
I had stood amidst the crowd, my heart and mind an overwhelming thunderstorm of desperation and disbelief, as they paraded him through the crowd to the waiting scaffold. His head held high, defiance burning in his eyes even as the blindfold was tied and his hands bound. I had screamed until my throat was raw. I had wanted to rush forward, to tear him from their grasp, but I was held back by armed guards—a mere pawn in the God King's cruel game.
I will never forget the sound. The sickening, final thud of the executioner's axe as it bit through flesh and bone, to find its home in the wooden block beneath my husband's neck. Its reverberation sinking into my very marrow. His lifeless body crumpled against the bloodstained block, and with it, the world I had known collapsed.
And now, here I was, at the King's grand celebration—a grotesque display of triumph he called the "End of the Great Rebellion." A rebellion that had been conjured from lies, fabricated to justify the murder of those who dared question his rule.
The day had been a parade of mockery. Tournaments in the morning, a sea of cheering faces reveling in false glory. Dancing in the afternoon, the court's laughter hollow and cruel. And now, the feast—lavish and obscene in its opulence. The smell of roasted meats and spiced wine filled the hall, a nauseating contrast to the grief that clung to me like a second skin.
I wasn't here by choice. I hadn't been invited. I had been summoned. The King wanted the widow of the "ignoble lord of Vraycia" to sit among his lords and ladies, a living trophy of his victory.
This morning, unfamiliar handmaidens had stormed into my chamber, their faces devoid of sympathy. My own servants—those I trusted—had been dismissed, or worse. That much was still unknown to me.
The women yanked me from my bed with a brusqueness that shattered the fragile cocoon of isolation I had wrapped myself in. Not that I had been sleeping. Sleep had been a stranger since the day I watched my husband die.
They had dressed me in what felt like nothing. Wisps of gauzy silk barely clung to my body, diaphanous enough to reveal the curves beneath while pretending at modesty. The fabric shimmered faintly in the torchlight, as though mocking me with its ethereal beauty. Each movement sent the fragile material whispering against my skin, a constant reminder of how exposed I was.
I wasn't alone in this indignity. The wives of my husband's highest-ranking nobles had been adorned similarly, their bodies wrapped in garments that straddled the line between allure and humiliation. We were not just guests at this grotesque feast; we were ornaments, displayed for the amusement of the court.
Now I stood, a living statue in the great hall, bathed in the oppressive glow of chandeliers and surrounded by the hollow echoes of laughter. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meats, spiced wine, and the cloying sweetness of perfumes worn by nobles who seemed to revel in the revelry of the King's so-called triumph. The false merriment grated against my ears, a dissonant symphony of mockery.
My gaze found him. The God King. Seated at the head of the grand table, reclined like a man who believed the world belonged to him. His robes, made of silks so fine they might as well have been woven from sunlight, gleamed with golden embroidery. Jewels adorned his wrists and fingers, each one worth more than entire villages. His crown, a delicate lattice of gold and crystal, shimmered with every flicker of the firelight.
And his smile—it was the worst of all. A slow, smug curl of his lips as he surveyed the room, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. He didn't just rule over these people; he possessed them. Every laugh, every bow, every hollow word of praise was a testament to his power.
This was the man who had taken everything from me. Who had ordered my husband's execution with a wave of his hand and dared to call it justice. Who had turned the love of my life into a lesson for those who might dream of rebellion. My grief churned into anger, a molten heat that burned just beneath the surface of my carefully composed expression.
Behind him stood the five Val'Rhaynes, the sons of the Lost Star. They were the God King's living weapons, legends made flesh, and the reason the rulers of Toltaria were more than mere kings—they were God Kings. Clad in gleaming armor so black it seemed to drink the light, they were as imposing as the stories claimed. Each of them bore the sigil of the Fallen Star etched into their leather breastplates, their faces cold and unreadable. They were more than warriors; they were symbols of divine power, the unwavering fist of the King.
How I hated them all.
Anger surged through me, hot and unyielding. It was a poison in my veins, yet it gave me strength. My hands clenched so tightly I could feel the sharpness of my nails as they bit into my own flesh.
The God King's laughter echoed, grating against my ears. My pulse roared in response, a tide of anger and grief threatening to overwhelm me. I forced my lips to still, my face to remain a mask of calm indifference. But inside, a storm churned.
I was no fool. My presence here wasn't mere cruelty. It was a message—to his court, to his enemies— of his complete and utter power.
But he underestimated one thing. Grief and humiliation could imprison a person, yes. But it could also forge something stronger, sharper. And as I stood in the belly of the beast, staring into the eyes of the man who had stolen everything from me, I made a silent vow.
This wasn't the end. Not for me. Not for him. I would see the God Kings of Toltaria fall.
As the night's revelry reached its crescendo, the God King rose to his feet. The harsh scrape of his chair against the stone floor of the great hall sliced through the din, silencing conversations and drawing every eye to him. His movements were deliberate, his command of the room absolute.
He turned, and his dark, piercing gaze found mine across the expanse of the hall. The intensity in his eyes froze the air in my lungs.
Fear gripped me then, sudden and sharp, like the bite of a frost snake. It slithered through my body, leaving a trail of prickling cold in its wake before coiling tightly in the pit of my stomach. My breath hitched, and though I fought to remain composed, my hands trembled at my sides.
I knew what was coming. Of course I did. Some small, naive part of me had dared to hope that the spectacle of dressing me as his trophy would be enough to sate his cruelty. But God Kings were not easily satisfied. Their appetites—for power, for dominance, for humiliation—were insatiable.
The silence in the hall thickened as he raised his goblet, his voice rolling through the chamber like distant thunder. "My honored guests," he began, his baritone resonating with theatrical gravity, "does the Lady of Vraycia not look appetizing tonight?"
A ripple of murmured unease swept through the crowd, punctuated by a few scattered chuckles. His lips curled into a predator's smile as he continued, savoring the weight of his words. "I think," he said, his voice dipping into something darker, more intimate, "I shall have her for my last meal."
The room seemed to tilt beneath me, the blood draining from my face as his proclamation hung in the air. My legs felt weak, and the delicate silk clinging to my skin suddenly felt suffocating, as if it sought to strangle me in its embrace.
There was no uproar, no gasps of outrage. Only a stifled laugh here and there, the sharpness of their cruelty cutting deeper than any blade. My husband had commanded loyalty in life, and many of his friends—if such men could even be called that—stood in this hall tonight. Silent. Watching. They said nothing, did nothing. Cowards cloaked in finery.
And yet, I knew who among them had never mourned my husband, who had raised their glasses in silent celebration at his death. Of his wife's humiliation. His enemies wore their satisfaction plainly, masked only by the veneer of decorum. Their smug expressions sent a fresh wave of nausea roiling through me.
The God King was making his power known. He meant to devour not only my body but my dignity, my spirit, and any hope of resistance that lingered within the hearts of those who had once called themselves loyal to Vraycia.
I clenched my fists ever more tightly, the crescent-shaped indents of my nails biting deeper into my palms. I could feel the warmth of blood against my skin. My fear was a living thing, but so too was my hatred. One burned cold, the other hot, and between them, I resolved one thing: if he would make me a spectacle, I would be sure that my fire burned brighter than his shadow.