Diana Hinsdale had once been a fool. A blind, arrogant, jealous fool who had destroyed her own life for a man who had never truly loved her.

She could still remember the day everything fell apart. The scent of incense clung to the grand hall, heavy and suffocating, masking the rotten stench of betrayal.

Golden chandeliers illuminated the polished marble floors, and noble lords and ladies dressed in silks and jewels whispered behind their hands, their gazes filled with thinly veiled glee.

Diana stood in the center, clad in a deep crimson gown embroidered with golden roses.

The Emperor—the man she had loved, the man she had sacrificed everything for—stood before her with cold eyes. Eyes that once looked at her with affection. Now, they held nothing but disdain.

"Diana Hinsdale, you are accused of poisoning Consort Liliana." His voice was calm, measured, like he was speaking about the weather. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

Her heart pounded, but she forced herself to keep her chin high.

"I am innocent," she said, her voice unwavering.

A murmur rippled through the court. Some scoffed, others sneered. She could hear them whispering.

"She always hated Liliana."

"It's obvious she did it."

"The Empress has finally lost."

Diana's hands clenched into fists at her sides. Of course, they would say that. They had always hated her. They had always waited for the day she would fall.

The Emperor's expression did not change. "The evidence says otherwise."

Her breath caught in her throat. Evidence? What evidence?

She opened her mouth to argue, but then she saw him.

Lucien.

Her son. Her sweet boy.

He stood behind the Emperor, dressed in his finest royal garments. His silver eyes—so much like his father's—were wide with confusion and fear. His small hands trembled at his sides.

"Mother?" he whispered. His voice was so small. So uncertain.

Something inside her cracked.

She took a step forward, reaching out. "Lucien—"

Guards seized her arms, shackles snapping around her wrists. Cold. Heavy. Unforgiving.

Lucien gasped. His small body flinched, and he turned desperate eyes to his father.

"Father, please! Mother wouldn't—"

"Silence, Lucien." The Emperor's voice was firm, cutting through the boy's plea like a blade.

Diana's breath came in shallow gasps. This couldn't be happening. It wasn't supposed to happen like this.

"I didn't do it," she tried again, her voice breaking. "You know I didn't."

For the first time, the Emperor's expression shifted. He hesitated.

Then he looked away.

And that was when she knew.

It didn't matter if she was innocent.

It didn't matter what she said.

He had already made his choice.

That night, she was dragged from the palace. Her crown stripped from her head, her title ripped away, her dignity crushed beneath the weight of betrayal.

And Lucien…

Her last memory of him was his small figure standing frozen in the hall, tears brimming in his silver eyes, his tiny hands clenched into fists.

She screamed for him.

He reached for her.

But the doors slammed shut between them.

And she was gone.

---

The battlefield smelled of blood.

Diana stood among the bodies, her breath heavy, her sword dripping with crimson. The once-delicate hands that used to play the harp, that used to trace the soft curls of her son's hair, were now covered in callouses and scars.

The wind howled, carrying the scent of death.

"Commander!" A soldier ran up to her, panting. "We've pushed them back! Victory is ours!"

Victory.

Diana exhaled, gripping the hilt of her sword tightly.

Victory meant nothing to her.

Not anymore.

She had survived the frontlines for years, trained by a mad warlord who had beaten the weakness out of her, carved a warrior out of the broken remnants of a fallen Empress. She had fought, bled, and endured.

All for one reason.

Lucien.

She wanted to see him again. She wanted to hear his voice, to hold him in her arms, to tell him she was sorry.

And now… now she could.

A messenger approached, holding a letter. Her heart pounded as she reached for it, her hands shaking.

The seal of the royal family gleamed under the sunlight.

This was it.

This was—

She tore it open.

Her eyes scanned the words.

And the world shattered.

> Lucien Hinsdale, son of former Empress Diana Hinsdale, has passed away.

No.

Her heart stopped. Her hands trembled.

No.

Her eyes darted over the words again, desperate, searching for some mistake, some cruel joke.

But it was real.

Lucien was dead.

Her son was dead.

A sharp, broken breath tore from her throat.

No. No. No.

She had fought for him. She had survived for him. She had endured humiliation, pain, war—everything, just to see him again.

How?

Why?

Her vision blurred, the battlefield around her fading into nothing.

He was innocent.

He was just a child.

He was all she had left.

And now…

Gone.

A scream built in her throat, raw and agonized.

But before she could release it, pain struck.

A blade slid into her back.

She gasped, choking on her breath.

The pain was sharp, deep, burning like fire.

Her body jerked forward, and she turned her head with great effort.

A soldier.

One of her own.

He pulled the sword free, and she stumbled, falling to her knees.

Blood gushed from the wound, pooling beneath her.

She blinked, her breath coming in short gasps.

Her son was dead.

And now she would die too.

No.

Not like this.

She gritted her teeth, trying to push herself up, but her strength was failing.

Her fingers clawed at the dirt.

Lucien.

Her beautiful son.

She had wanted to hold him. To see him smile. To tell him she loved him.

But now she would never get the chance.

Her body trembled. Her vision darkened.

And the last thing she saw was the sky, painted in the deep red.