The throne room reeked of death. Blood pooled beneath the golden dais, the crimson tide spilling over the shattered marble. Torn banners of the royal house hung limply from the walls, their once-proud insignias now scorched and blackened. The air was thick with smoke and the metallic tang of blood, suffocating and inescapable.
Marcella Valemont knelt on the cold, wet marble floor, trembling. Her silk gown torn and bloodstained, her once-gleaming crown lying discarded beside her. Her breath came in short, frantic gasps, but no amount of air could fill her lungs.
Around her, bodies littered the room—the knights, soldiers, royal members. All gone.
Marcela had been a queen—a manipulative, cunning queen who bent the world to her will. And yet here she was, at the feet of the man she had wronged the most, begging for a life she had already ruined.
Duke Berith.
His obsidian armor glinted in the dim torchlight, streaked with blood that wasn't his own. His broad shoulders and towering frame made him seem less a man and more a devil, a living nightmare brought to life. His black eyes—cold, endless voids—burned into her as he descended the dais with the calm precision of a man who already knew he had won.
"Please," she rasped, her voice raw and broken. "Spare him."
Duke Berith loomed above her; his tall figure cloaked in shadow. His dark eyes bore into hers, cold and unfeeling, as if weighing the worth of her words.
"Spare him?" His voice like frost, sharp and deadly. "The same Lucian you discarded like a pawn in your little game for power?"
Her heart pounded violently in her chest. She clutched at the edge of her ruined gown, trying to summon the strength to speak, but the words caught in her throat.
This was the end. She knew it as surely as she knew the blood on her hands.
Her lips quivered. "It wasn't supposed to be like this."
Berith stopped in front of her, tilting his head as if considering her words. His dark hair, damp with sweat and blood, clung to his forehead, but he looked as composed as ever. His presence was suffocating her.
"Not like this?" His voice dropped to a low, dangerous murmur. "Do you mean the deaths, the betrayal, or the fact that you lost, Marcella?"
Tears welled in her eyes, blurring her vision as she shook her head. Marcella wanted to argue, but deep down, she knew the truth. This wasn't just about his rebellion or the kingdom's fall. This was about her. Her greed. Her selfishness. Her ambition.
She had ruined everything.
Lucian. Sweet, innocent Lucian. She had dragged him into her schemes, seduced him into loving her, and abandoned him the moment she no longer needed him. His incorruptible soul had been shattered by her lies.
And now, even he had fallen. She had seen him being dragged from the battlefield; his body thrown before her like a trophy.
"Lucian," Marcella choked, the name slipping from her lips like a prayer. She raised her head to look at Berith, tears streaking her blood-stained cheeks. "Please."
His brow arched, "Please?" Berith crouched before her, his armor creaking as he rested one gloved hand on the hilt of his sword. His face was so close now that she could see the faint scar cutting across his left cheek—a scar she remembered. A scar she had caused.
But it was his eyes that held her captive.
Black. Bottomless. Soulless.
His lips curled into a cold smile, but there was no warmth in it. "You would trade your life merely for him?"
Marcella nodded, the tears falling freely now. "Yes."
Her hands tightened into fists against the marble floor. Marcela wanted to deny it, to scream at him that it wasn't her fault, but she couldn't. She knew better.
It was her fault.
And now, with nothing left to bargain, nothing left to offer, she had only one thing she could do.
The corner of Berith's mouth twitched, and for a fleeting moment, she thought she saw something flicker behind his cold gaze. A shadow of emotion. Amusement, perhaps. Or pity.
"Very well," The faintest smile touched his lips. It wasn't kind. It wasn't warm. It was cold and cruel. "If you wish to die, I will grant you that mercy."
Before she could process his words, he moved.
His arms wrapped around her, pulling her into an embrace. For a fleeting moment, she felt the ghost of something familiar—the warmth of his chest, it felt almost… gentle.
But then the pain came.
Red-hot and searing, the dagger ripped through her abdomen. Her hands flew to the hilt of the blade. Her body jolted, and she gasped.
The hilt of his dagger protruded from her torso, buried deep. Blood seeped through her gown, warm and sticky, spreading across her trembling fingers.
Her head fell forward, resting against his chest as the strength drained from her limbs. She could feel her life slipping away.
"Hush," Berith murmured, his lips brushing against her ear. His tone was soft, almost tender, but it was laced with cruelty. "You wanted to die, didn't you?"
Marcella tried to speak, but the words wouldn't come. Her vision blurred, her mind slipping into a haze of pain and regret.
She could feel his arms tightening around her, pulling her closer as if to savor the moment. The heat of his body was the last thing she felt, even as the cold began to creep into her veins.
"Goodbye, Marcella," Berith whispered.
The world began to fade. The pain ebbed, replaced by a strange, numbing emptiness. Her thoughts drifted, fragmented and incoherent, as darkness closed in around her.
Marcela thought of Lucian—his smile, his kindness, the way he had loved her despite all her flaws.
Then, she thought of Berith—the man she had loathed, feared, and betrayed. The man who had ultimately killed her.
And she thought of herself.
Not the queen, not the schemer, not the manipulator. Just Marcella.
She didn't want to die. Not like this. Not with her soul stained by her sins, her heart heavy with regret.
"If I had another chance," Marcela thought, her mind slipping further into darkness. "I would do better. I would…"
The words trailed off as the void consumed her.
But death wasn't the end.
Marcella gasped as she bolted upright, her hands flying to her stomach. The pain was gone. The blood was gone.
She fluttered her eyes open. Her breath hitching as sunlight pierced through her eyelids. The warmth of the morning sun settled over her like a tender embrace.
For a moment, Marcela thought she was dead. No, she knew she was dead. She had felt the blade sink into her stomach, felt the cold seep through her veins as Berith's arms held her tight. She remembered the blood—her blood—pooling beneath her, staining the marble floor of the throne room.
And yet… she was here.
She blinked again, the bright light forcing her to squint. The familiar scent of beeswax candles and old wood tickled her nose, and when her vision cleared, she recognized the high, vaulted ceiling above her bed. The intricate carvings of angels and saints loomed over her, painted in rich gold leaf.
This was her room. Her room.