I couldn't believe it. 

I was standing in the same room as the man who had killed my husband.

Less than a 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 in my ears, echoing over and over inside my mind as those final moments played themselves endlessly on repeat. 

My husband—the man who had shared my bed, my dreams, and my heart—was no traitor. But truth didn't matter. The God King's word was absolute, his law unquestionable, and he used my husband as an example for any others that might think to question it. 

Only just yesterday morning I had stood amidst the crowd, my heart raced and my mind an overwhelming thunderstorm of desperation and disbelief, as they paraded my husband through the crowd to the waiting scaffold. 

He'd held his handsome head high. I could still see the defiance burning in his eyes even as the blindfold was tied and his hands bound. 

I had screamed until my throat burned raw. I had fought to reach him, to tear him from their grasp, only to be held back by armed guards who left me bruised for my resistance. But nothing—not my cries, not my struggles—could stop what came next.

I swear, I will never forget that sound. 

The sickening final thud of the executioner's axe as it bit through flesh and bone, its cruel reverberation sinking into my very marrow.

I will never unsee the way his head tumbled from the scaffold into the crowd below, while his lifeless body collapsed against the bloodstained block. 

In that moment, my world fell apart, every piece of it crumbling into darkness.

And the mockery that followed… it was unbearable.

This morning had begun with a series of tournaments, all before a sea of cheering faces reveling in false glory-and the frozen ones of my husband, and his closest generals and courtiers, all placed on spikes before the king. 

Dancing in the afternoon, the court's laughter, their joy in my misery, rang 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" as a living trophy of his victory—a display of triumph for what 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 him.

I hadn't slept last night. How could I, with my husband's face—tarred, feathered, and lifeless—haunting every attempt to close my eyes? I had been wide awake in my cell when the King's handmaids barged in.

Their faces were cold, devoid of sympathy. They despised me, just as the King had taught them to. To them, I was the wife of a traitor. 

My own servants—those I trusted—were gone, their fates unknown. 

The handmaid's weren't exactly gentle when they yanked me from my cot, with no regard for my dignity, dressing me in a wisp of gauzy silk so sheer it felt like wearing nothing at all.

The fabric clung to me, diaphanous and shimmering, whispering against my skin with every movement—a constant reminder of my exposure. It pretended at modesty but left little to the imagination.

And now, here I stood, in the center of the grand hall, the torchlight making the gossamer fabric glow as though mocking me with its fragile beauty. All around me, eyes roamed hungrily, devouring me without shame.

However, I wasn't alone in this indignity. 

No, unfortunately, the wives and daughters of my husband's highest-ranking nobles were here with me. Each had been adorned similarly, their bodies wrapped in garments that straddled the line between allure and humiliation. 

We were trophies on display for the amusement of the court. A feast for the vultures, and a living reminder of the King's power. 

Oh, how they hated me. God's breath, how they hated me.

As we stood shoulder to shoulder, living statues beneath the oppressive glow of the chandeliers, their loathing radiated like a tangible force. It rolled off them in waves, simmering beneath the clamor of laughter and the hollow cheer of celebration. And though their disdain cut deep, I couldn't blame them. In their shoes, I might have hated me too.

The nausea twisted in my stomach, made worse by the heady blend of roasted meats, spiced wine, and the sickly sweetness of perfume that hung like a suffocating fog over the grand hall. 

I swallowed hard, fighting the rising bile, willing myself not to disgrace what little dignity I had left.

My eyes darted around the room, desperate for an anchor. And that was when I saw 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. 

As I watched him, 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. 

Clad in obsidian armor so black it seemed to drink the light, they were as imposing as the stories claimed. Their faces cold and unreadable. They were more than warriors; they were symbols of divine power, the unwavering fist of the King.

Now, it was my turn to hate. And 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 the flesh of my palms. 

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. 

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 King of Toltaria fall.