In the murky night sky, clouds drifted slowly like silent curtains of mist. And through their gaps, a colossal creature soared.

Its wings stretched wide, each beat slicing the air like a storm of destruction. Its body, long like a primordial lizard, was covered in dark crimson scales that shimmered faintly, pulsing with an inner fire like a heart that refused to die.

Its eyes glowed yellow, twin embers of hell suspended in the night sky. It flew straight, proud, untouched by anything in the mortal world.

Until, suddenly, its neck began to twist.

Its head turned to the side. Its gaze paused, then narrowed.

The beast roared.

A thunderous bellow shook the heavens, echoing like the cry of a forgotten age. Birds scattered in panic. Clouds around it shattered into a vortex.

Then it veered.

With a movement both graceful and terrifying, it changed direction, streaking toward the disturbance that had stirred its primal instinct.

.

.

.

The night still hung heavy overhead, with only a pale crescent moon remaining as a silent witness. A thin fog crept over the lowlands, draping the fields and ditches in hushed stillness, as if the earth itself was holding its breath.

But the silence would not last.

Tens of thousands of soldiers had encircled the city of Belgrande—the capital, now reduced to the last bastion of the Belgrande Kingdom. Flames consumed part of the outer wall, while flaming arrows and arcane magic tore through the sky, slashing the darkness like bolts of lightning. The air reeked of blood, hot iron, and damp soil.

From a distant hilltop to the north, a woman stood still.

Her red hair flared like fire, vivid beneath the moonlight. In her hand, she held a golden mask—etched with twisted patterns like thorns crafted by a mad god. It glinted faintly, ominous, yet commanding. Slowly, she raised it and placed it over her face.

The armor she wore was not the heavy plate of a male knight, but a lightweight ensemble of black obsidian and gold—engineered for speed and lethal efficiency. Her shoulders and chest bore crimson etchings, like veins carved into living metal. A long, dark-red sash flowed from her waist, billowing in the cold night wind.

And behind the golden mask, two red eyes glowed—cold, lucid, and merciless.

She was Ashtoria Iskandrite.

The Mad Queen of Iskandria.

In an instant, she leapt from the cliff.

Her body became a streak of blood-red lightning, slicing through the night with deadly silence.

Then—

BOOOOOOM!!

She struck the heart of the enemy formation.

The ground erupted. A shockwave blasted out in all directions, tearing through tents, toppling watchtowers, and leaving a massive crater where she landed. Soldiers nearby were hurled into the air, their bodies slamming into the ground with grotesque snaps of bone.

And then… silence.

One breath.

And with the next, it arrived.

A presence. Thick, dark, and dense—so potent the air itself trembled. It wasn't magic. It wasn't sorcery. It was raw destruction—mana born of unbridled killing intent. The atmosphere thickened. Mist swirled. Nearby magical flames flickered and died, swallowed by something older… and far more savage.

In a blink, thousands of bodies exploded from within.

No incantations. No gestures.

Just bodies—bloated, bursting like overripe fruit.

Blood geysered into the sky. Rain of viscera and shattered bone fell upon the panicked ranks. Screams rang out… but not for long. Another wave of silent death erased them.

The battlefield became a charnel field.

And in its center stood a woman in gleaming metal robes—unstained, untouched by the carnage around her.

The night wind swept through her crimson hair. Her cloak billowed through the scorched air. And from behind her golden mask, her gaze remained steady.

Cold.

Inhuman.

Like a queen who had long discarded empathy, now driven by a single, unrelenting purpose: annihilation.

From afar, soldiers dropped their weapons. Their bodies trembled. They knew who she was.

The woman who should be dead.

Her death had emboldened them to rebel.

But her presence here meant only one thing:

Death had come.

Because the goddess of death had returned to the mortal realm.

And that night, Belgrande did not fall.

Because its queen… was a nightmare too terrifying even for hell.

.

.

Hours passed since the skies above Belgrande turned red from slaughter.

Now, the halls of the Iskandria Palace stood silent. Gray marble walls reflected the flicker of torchlight lining the corridor. The night sky still cloaked the world outside, but within, time seemed frozen, no sound but the soft clink of metal heels echoing slowly.

Ashtoria walked calmly.

Her black and red battle gown still clung to her figure. The golden mask had vanished in a shimmer of light, revealing a face devoid of emotion. Her crimson eyes stared forward, still as a glass lake hiding an abyss beneath.

At the end of the corridor, a woman awaited her.

Anna Hartwell.

She appeared in her early fifties, hair pinned up neatly, adorned only with a simple silver pin. Her deep violet gown brushed the floor with every measured step. Her face was smooth, yet her jawline sharp, radiating a natural authority.

She bowed, graceful and precise—respectful, but never groveling.

"Welcome back to the palace, Your Majesty," she said. Her voice was calm, but each word sharpened like a dagger honed to perfection.

Ashtoria stopped a few steps away. The air between them tightened.

"Anna," she said flatly, void of inflection, "give me the full list of traitors you've gathered. I'll destroy them all… as soon as possible."

No hesitation. No doubt. Anna merely nodded, as if she'd been waiting for this moment all along.

"As you command, Your Majesty. Please follow me."

Anna Hartwell—Queen's right hand, the brain behind the machinery of the state, and perhaps the only person alive who understood the inner workings of Iskandrite better than the Queen herself. Without her, the kingdom might have collapsed long ago.

Now, she would be the mind behind the greatest purge in Iskandrite's history.

They walked through hidden corridors known to only a few. A concealed door hissed open, revealing a spiral staircase descending into shadow. The palace's undercroft, a place where secrets were not written in ink… but in blood.

Meanwhile, outside the palace, rumors spread like wildfire.

The Queen of Islandria is alive.

The phrase rippled from noble salons to seedy taverns in the slums. Faces that had hidden behind false smiles and treacherous alliances now turned pale with panic.

They—nobles, leeches, traitors—had believed they were safe. For weeks, since Ashtoria had vanished in a riot they themselves orchestrated, they'd celebrated. They'd formed dark coalitions, siphoned the treasury, hired mercenaries, and hollowed out Iskandrite from within.

But now—

The snare they set had turned on them.

Her return was no accident. It was bait. A grand trap designed to lure every rat from its hole… and crush them in a single, merciless blow.

The plan was ruthless.

The people would suffer.

Cities would tremble.

Borders might collapse.

Hunger would spread.

But Anna Hartwell didn't care.

And Ashtoria Iskandrite?

She didn't even look back.

This kingdom would survive, even if it had to stand atop a mountain of corpses.

As they descended into the archive of betrayal, Anna whispered silently in her heart:

'The last time this kingdom shook like this… was fifteen years ago.'

.

.

.

Riven had not yet slept.

Inside the gently swaying carriage, his eyes stared silently into the forest beyond the window. His younger sister still lay sleeping against his shoulder.

Suddenly—

"Out of the carriage—NOW!"

Sally's voice cut through the air, sharp and commanding.

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