Somewhere in the depths of the world where the sun does not dare set without permission and the sky bends beneath the weight of power there exists a kingdom feared by gods and men alike.

It is a kingdom where gold is not a symbol of wealth but dominion where marble halls stretch like veins through a body of endless opulence and where shadows crawl like living creatures,whispering the names of those who perished beneath it's rule

A kingdom where mercy is treason and defiance is death.

The Gilded Palace.

It rises like a fortress of nightmares ,it's towering spires crowned in firelight, it's black marble floors slick with the ghosts of a thousand betrayels every inch of it is a reminder-a warning-of the empire it has swallowed whole.The scent of licence lingers in the air thick.Suffocating ,meant to mask the coppery stain of blood.

And tonight, in it halls the world trembles,the hall is silent, the kind of silence that feels like the world is holding its breath. And then, with a slow, deliberate echo of heels against the black marble floor, she arrives.

Runa.

The Angel of Death

Her steps echo like war drums against the obsidian floors, slow and deliberate, not a sound in the vast, gilded chamber daring to rise above them. Shadows twist at her feet, curling up the edges of her midnight gown, clinging to her like they belong to her—like they know she is the only thing they will ever obey.

The courtiers kneel the moment she enters, their heads pressed to the cold stone,so low there foreheads brush the flower,Not out of reverence. Out of fear. She is not a queen to be adored; she is a queen to be obeyed.

Not a single one dares to look up. Not because it is forbidden—no, there is no law that demands their submission. Only fear.

The power that drips from her presence is suffocating, a force that wraps around throats like an invisible chain. The weight of her gaze alone is enough to steal breath from lungs, to press knees into stone until bone protests against the pressure.

She walks past them without a glance. She does not need to acknowledge them. She owns them.

At the end of the room, beneath the golden glow of the great braziers, the High Lord of the Court kneels at the base of the throne. He is a man who commands cities, who bends armies to his will—yet here, before her, he is nothing but a shaking figure of flesh and fear.

"My Lady," he chokes out, voice unsteady, "we have… news."

She halts before him. The silence that follows is so complete, so absolute, that the flames seem to burn quieter.

She tilts her head, slow, deliberate. "You summoned me."

Not a question. A warning.

The High Lord swallows hard. The scent of fear thickens in the air. "A rider has come from the West," he stammers. "A man of war. A cursed king."

For the first time, Runa moves. Not much—just the barest flicker of amusement at the corner of her lips.

"His name?"

The High Lord hesitates. And in that hesitation, the temperature in the room seems to drop. The shadows stretch, twisting with an unnatural hunger, eager to devour the silence.

"Kale," he whispers.

The sound is like a blade being drawn from its sheath.

The air shifts. The walls seem to tighten around them, as if the palace itself is listening. The courtiers hold their breath, frozen in place like statues. Even the shadows seem to recoil, as if they, too, understand the weight of that name.

Runa's fingers trail over the arm of her throne as she ascends its black marble steps. She does not sit immediately. Instead, she looks out over the kneeling figures before her—figures that dare not move, dare not breathe, dare not exist too loudly in her presence.

Deep in the hollow of the chamber, the shadows shift once more. Not the ordinary ones—the other ones. The ones that do not belong to the room, or the people in it. The ones that whisper of the past.

Of the ones who came before her.

Of the ones whose blood made this kingdom, whose ghosts still haunt its walls.

She does not think of them. Not today.

But the shadows do. They slither at the edge of the throne, forming a shape—a man, a woman, a history that refuses to stay buried.

She exhales slowly, fingers curling into a fist. The shadows vanish.

She does not think of them.

Instead, she settles onto the throne, tilting her head ever so slightly.

The Angel of Death smiles.

And the world remembers why it should fear her.