Prologue

The square reeked of blood and sweat and the damp staleness of to many bodies packed together under the blistering sun.

Heat rippled through the air, settling heavy over the crowd, an oppressive stench that clung to the air, thick and sour.

The midday sun blazed high above the crowd, casting its unforgiving light over the stone courtyard. Dust swirled in the restless wind, carrying with it the whispers and curses of the gathered villagers.

In the middle of it all, a girl stood still, her bare feet burned against the sunbaked stone, chained to a metal post driven deep into the stone, bound tightly in iron chains that bit into her bruised wrists.

She was small, barely past her thirteenth year, her slender frame trembling with exhaustion. Her shoulders slumped forward, her back marred with fresh lash marks, the blood soaking into the coarse fabric of her dress. The dress itself, once a pale beige, was now a mess of dirt, sweat, and crimson streaks. Her knees threatened to buckle beneath her

Her head hung low, her hair, tangled and matted, clung to her face, damp with sweat.

The wind tore through the square, tossing strands into her eyes, but she didn't brush them away.Beneath the tangled curtain, her gaze was fixed on the ground, lips parted slightly, her breaths shallow and uneven.

Each inhale was like drawing in shards of glass Her arms were bound too tightly to her sides.

The voices around her buzzed like flies, a mix of shouted accusations and hushed whispers that crawled over her skin.

"She killed the Queen," someone spat, his voice sharp and full of venom. "With her own two hands."

Another, a woman with a trembling voice, murmured, "A servant girl? How could she? How could she even get close enough?"

"She's a witch," an older man growled. "You can see it in her eyes. There's nothing human about her."

Another whispered, barely "What kind of monster does something like this?"

"A monster born of filth, that's what," came a reply, louder and dripping with contempt. "Look at her-just look. A rat dressed in rags. They should've drowned her at birth."

The girl's breaths hitched, each one scraping painfully through her throat. She could feel their eyes on her, hundreds of them, burning into her skin.

"They say she stabbed the Queen in her chambers," a woman hissed, leaning toward her companion as though sharing some forbidden secret.

"No, no, it wasn't the chambers," the other whispered back. "It was in the garden, under the moon. The Queen trusted her, brought her there alone, and the girl-"

"She's a servant!" someone interrupted with a shout. "She had no right to even breathe the same air as Her Majesty, let alone touch her."

"She didn't just touch her. She murdered her."

"Look at her!" a man bellowed. "She doesn't even cry! Not a tear, not a word of remorse. She's not human-she's a devil"

The girl's shoulders stiffened. It wasn't true. None of it was. Or maybe it was. She wasn't sure anymore. Her memories felt distant, blurred, as though they belonged to someone else. All she could see, all she could feel, was blood.

The whispers swirled around her like smoke, choking her, filling her lungs with their poison.

"I heard she stabbed the Queen six times," someone murmured.

"No, ten times."

"Slit her throat."

"She smiled when she did it."

The girl swallowed hard, her throat dry. Her cracked lips trembled, but no sound came. What would she even say if she could?

A man near the front of the crowd leaned closer, his face contorted with disgust. "What kind of god allows this filth to live?"

"She doesn't belong to God," a woman hissed back. "She belongs to the devil."

The girl's stomach twisted, but she stayed silent, her head still bowed. She didn't cry. She hadn't cried since they dragged her from the Queen's chambers, her hands still slick with blood.

"I didn't mean to."

The thought echoed in her mind, but it felt weak, hollow. She wasn't sure if it was the truth or a lie she had told herself so many times that she'd started to believe it.

The sun beat down on her, the heat a cruel weight on her shoulders. Her body swayed slightly, her vision swimming. For a moment, she thought she might collapse. But then the crowd fell silent

The crowd was relentless.

"Monster!"

"Witch!"

"She killed her!"

"Burn her!"

Each word was a blow, more brutal than the whip that had already kissed her back. Their hatred was a living thing, breathing in unison with their screams, feeding on the sight of her bowed head.

But she didn't look at them. Her head was tipped slightly forward, her gaze fixed on the ground. Her breathing was shallow, ragged. Her lips were dry and cracked, and the faint taste of copper lingered on her tongue. She couldn't cry. She didn't have the strength left.

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the noise. She wanted to scream, to claw at her ears, her wide brown eyes meeting a sea of faces twisted with rage.

The voices blurred together until they were an indistinct roar, and for a moment, it was as though the world tilted beneath her. The heat, the noise, the chains-it was all too much. She wanted to collapse, to surrender to the blackness clawing at the edges of her vision.

The world blurred for a moment as her head swayed, the agony and exhaustion threatening to drag her into unconsciousness. But then the crowd fell silent, as though the earth itself held its breath.

The air shifted. A sudden, eerie hush swept over the square, silencing the crowd. It wasn't commanded; it simply happened, as though the world itself had stilled in submission.

The change was so sudden, so absolute, that it was like a physical blow.

He was here.

The King stepped into view, and it was as though the air itself bent to his will. He moved with a deliberate, unhurried grace, his tall frame clad in blackened armor that gleamed like obsidian.

The edges of his pauldrons were sharp enough to cut, the intricate gold inlays a stark contrast to the darkness of his presence.

He didn't need to speak. His mere presence silenced the crowd.

The girl's heart thudded painfully in her chest as he approached, the sound loud in her ears, drowning out everything else.

The King's eyes swept over the crowd before settling on her. They were cold, unfeeling, the gold in them catching the sunlight like the edge of a blade.

He stared at her for a long moment, and she felt the weight of his gaze pressing down on her like the chains that bound her.

"Bring her forward," he said finally, his voice low and steady, but carrying enough weight to silence even the faintest murmur in the crowd.

The guards yanked her forward roughly, the chains clattering against the stone. She stumbled, her knees hitting the ground with a sharp crack.

Pain flared up her legs, but she didn't cry out. She bit down on her lip until she tasted blood.

The King's court loomed above her, a semicircle of stone thrones raised high on a dais. Seated there were his advisors-five figures as cold and unyielding as the stone they sat upon.

The first, a man with a face like carved marble, bore an expression of such detached calm that it seemed almost inhuman.He sat with his hands folded neatly in his lap. His silver hair gleamed in the sunlight, and his ice-blue eyes betrayed nothing but disdain.

The second, a woman with sharp features and hawkish eyes, leaned forward slightly, her lips pursed in silent judgment.Her hands rested in her lap, gloved and delicate, her crimson robes were immaculate, not a single thread out of place.

The third was rotund and jowly, his face red from the heat and his fingers tapping impatiently against the arm of his chair. His dark eyes darted to the King and back to the girl. He looked uncomfortable, as though the heat and the weight of the moment were too much for him to bear.

The fourth, skeletal and hollow-eyed, seemed more shadow than man. His fingers, long and spindly, drummed against the table before him, a ceaseless rhythm that grated against her ears.

And finally, the fifth was younger than the rest, his face still bearing the softness of youth. But his eyes were tired, weary beyond his years, and he avoided looking at the girl altogether.

The trial began.

The accusations were laid bare, the evidence recounted in painstaking detail. Witnesses spoke of finding her in the garden, the Queen's blood on her hands.

They described the knife, the frantic screams, the chaos that followed

They spoke of evidence, of testimony, of motive.

They spoke of the Queen, her death, the blood that stained the girl's hands. They spoke of justice.

The girl said nothing.

She kept her head bowed, her lips closed. The words of her accusers washed over her like waves, leaving her numb. She didn't flinch, didn't protest, didn't plead for her life. There was nothing she could say that they would believe.

Hours passed. The sun began to sink, casting long shadows across the square. The crowd grew restless, their murmurs rising and falling like a tide.

Finally, the King stood. His voice carried over the courtyard, silencing all

This child," he began, his voice echoing through the square, "has committed the gravest of crimes. She has spilled royal blood. She has taken the life of my Queen."

The crowd erupted, their voices a deafening roar of anger and hatred.

"Hang her!"

"Burn her alive!"

The King raised a hand, and the noise fell away.

Finally, the King stood. His voice carried over the courtyard, silencing all.

"She is a child," he continued, his tone cold but steady. "She will not escape punishment, but neither will she be executed."

The girl's breath caught in her throat.

"She is sentenced to life," the King declared. "Let that be her penance."

The girl's head snapped up, her wide eyes meeting his. Life in the dungeons. It was not mercy-it was a slow death in darkness, in chains, away from the sun and the sky. But it was life.

The crowd erupted in outrage, their cries of disapproval echoing through the square. They wanted blood, vengeance. They wanted her head. But the King didn't waver.

He had spoken, and no one would dare defy him. He turned, his cloak sweeping behind him, and ascended the dais steps.

As the guards began to drag her away, she turned her head, seeking one face among the sea of hatred

The girl's heart pounded in her chest as she searched the crowd one last time. She wasn't looking for mercy or hope-she had long since stopped expecting those things. No, she was searching for one face.

Her father.

He stood at the edge of the crowd, his face pale, his shoulders stiff. When her eyes found his, he flinched. Then, slowly, he turned away.

Something inside her broke. The chains around her wrists suddenly felt heavier. The world seemed to shrink, the crowd fading into a blur. All she could see was him, his back turned to her, his shoulders stiff.

It wasn't anger, not quite. It was something colder, heavier. A despair so complete it felt as though it would swallow her whole.

The betrayal was colder than the chains around her wrists, sharper than the lashes across her back. He had abandoned her, cast her aside like a broken tool.

She was truly alone.

Her lips parted, a faint, broken sound escaping her throat. She didn't know what she wanted to say. She just wanted him to look at her.

But he didn't.

Her chest tightened, the pain swallowing her whole. The guards grabbed her arms, dragging her toward the heavy wooden doors that led to the dungeons below. She didn't resist.

The guards grabbed her by the arms, dragging her toward the stone steps that led to the dungeons below. She didn't resist. There was no point.

As the heavy wooden doors closed behind her, shutting out the light, she took a deep, shuddering breath. The air was damp and cold, a stark contrast to the oppressive heat of the square.

And for the first time in hours, the noise in her head quieted.

She was alone now. Truly alone.