Ashtoria rose slowly from the bath, the calm water rippling gently around her body. Warm steam filled the room, clinging to the cold stone walls and forming a thin veil of mist that drifted faintly in the air.
Her skin was pale, almost as white as cracked marble, as though her body had never been meant for the mortal world. Every drop of water that slid down her shoulders shimmered in the lantern light, tracing the curves of her form before falling back into the bath with a soft sound.
Yet that beauty was marred by a terrible truth. Ashtoria's back was no clean canvas; it was a tapestry of scars long settled. Whip marks crossed over one another, forming dark lines that never truly faded. Deeper gashes carved across her flesh like the talons of a beast, though they clearly came from human hands. Some wounds looked rough, as though her flesh had once been torn beyond recognition, leaving hardened scars stretched across her skin.
Without haste, she reached for a black towel placed neatly on a small stool by the bath. Slowly, she dried her body, each pass of the cloth seeming to unearth bitter memories carved deep into her flesh.
When finished, she slipped into a simple yet elegant black gown folded neatly on the small table near the door. The fabric draped along her figure, hiding every scar that still throbbed faintly beneath, concealing the truth behind her cold elegance.
Ashtoria left the bath without looking back. The long corridor greeted her with dim candlelight, the tall stone walls echoing the sound of her light but steady footsteps.
Soon she arrived at a vast, silent dining hall. A long table stretched before her, covered in a lavish spread: steaming roasted meat, bread with herbal butter, fresh salad, fragrant spiced soup, and delicate pastries arranged with precision. Everything was prepared as though for a feast of dozens, yet only for one.
From the direction of the kitchen came soft footsteps. A middle-aged cook appeared, followed by two attendants. Carefully, he carried a thin silver platter bearing slices of smoked venison, garnished with rare herbs. With trembling hands he set it on the table, then bowed deeply.
"May Your Majesty be pleased with tonight's meal…" he said, his voice low and cautious.
Ashtoria cast only a brief glance. Her crimson eyes reflected the crystal lamp's light, yet gave no other response. Her silence was her answer. The cook and attendants immediately withdrew, retreating without a sound until they vanished behind the door.
The queen sat alone. Silence ruled the hall. The feast lay before her, untouched, as though it were nothing more than an empty display.
After some time, her hand moved. With controlled grace, she slid a spoon into a bowl of hot meat broth. Steam rose as she gazed at it briefly before raising it to her lips.
She tilted the spoon at a perfect angle, sipping noiselessly, swallowing upright. Then she moved to a plate of cut fruit: fresh-glossed red apples, dark grapes, and honey pears glistening with juice. She ate six pieces, one by one, and stopped.
Without hesitation, she placed her utensils neatly beside her plate. Then she lifted a crystal glass filled with red wine. She stared at the liquid for a moment, its deep crimson swaying softly like blood that refused to dry.
For an instant, her reflection shimmered on its surface—a pale face of terrible beauty. She sipped lightly, letting the bitter-sour taste spread across her tongue, then set the glass down again.
She raised a thin napkin, touching it faintly to her lips though it wiped away nothing. Then she sat in silence, eyes closing briefly, her breath long and heavy as though banishing something unseen.
At last she stood. The chair slid back slowly, its sound echoing across the vast, empty hall. She walked out, leaving several untouched dishes behind.
The long corridor received her. Lantern light flickered on the cold stone floor. From the tall windows to her left, Ashtoria saw a fine drizzle falling that night. Droplets struck the glass, blurring the faint light of the moon. Her steps were slow, steady, almost dragging, as though weighed by something unseen.
When the night wind slipped through a narrow crack in the window and brushed her pale skin, Ashtoria paused. She stared outward, at the darkness and the endless beads of rain. Only for a moment, then she moved on.
Upon reaching her chamber, she drew back the thin curtain, gazing at the room bathed in candlelight's gentle glow. Without removing her gown, she lay down upon the great bed draped in deep black cloth. Her head touched the pillow. Her eyelids sank, and in the silence accompanied only by the sound of rain, the queen finally drifted into sleep.
.
.
.
In a dim room lit only by the flicker of a small oil lamp upon a round wooden table, faint smoke from burning incense curled in the air, spreading its bitter scent. Around the table sat five men in silence.
One of them, an aged man with long white hair neatly flowing down despite the marks of time upon him, straightened his posture. His face was chiseled with coldness, his eyes dull yet sharp with vigilance. He was Lord Dyrtose, the very figure Riven had encountered hours earlier. When he spoke, his voice was low, deep, trembling faintly yet carrying a weight that made every man at the table lift his head.
"Has it been done?" he asked, quiet but sharp.
A gaunt-faced man with a thin beard immediately nodded. He bowed his head low before replying, his voice restrained, as though holding back a tremor.
"It has, my lord. The poison has been mixed into the queen's meal. Its effect will not be immediate… but within an hour, it will begin to take hold. No taste, no scent, no one will ever notice."
He paused, swallowing hard, then spoke in an even lower tone, as though afraid to name what he had done.
"It is a rare poison, one that can only be obtained from the far northern lands. It will make the victim feel as though their body is burning from within, while their muscles lock, as if bound by chains of unseen iron. The pain is cruel, and when death comes… it will be the most wretched of ends."
Several men at the table exchanged uneasy glances. They all knew well, the Mad Queen of Iskandrite was said to be immune to poison.
But the gaunt man was not finished.
"In addition, my lord… I added a special toxin. One that will seal the flow of energy within her body. That way, she will not be able to summon her powers or call upon any protection."
Dyrtose listened calmly. Slowly, a thin smile traced his lips. He gave a slight nod.
"Good. Very good."
But his gaze hardened once more, his eyes narrowing.
"Then… no one will be standing guard over the queen tonight?"
The question thickened the air. One of the other men, broad-shouldered with a long scar across his cheek, finally spoke. His voice was low and hoarse.
"No one dares keep watch near the queen's chamber, my lord."
Dyrtose frowned, displeased.
"Why?"
The scarred man drew a long breath, his eyes hollow as if recalling something witnessed long ago.
"Because the queen… is not ordinary when she sleeps. She is haunted by nightmares, and when they seize her, she… rises and rages. She slaughters anyone near her chamber, her servants, even her own guards. No one has ever been able to stop her. All who tried… died in the most terrible ways."
A suffocating silence fell after his words.
The lamp's flame flickered faintly, as though shaken by the dark secret revealed.
Dyrtose narrowed his eyes, his fingers tapping the table slowly, the rhythm like the toll of an unseen death clock.
"So… even in her sleep, the queen is a threat…" he murmured to himself.
No one dared reply. They waited, holding their breath, for what the white-haired man would command.
A faint smile returned to Dyrtose's lips—this time subtler, yet somehow far more terrifying.
"In that case," he said slowly, "let the poison do its work. Let her die in solitude, in the torment of her nightmares. That will be the most fitting end for a woman such as her. And if the poison proves not enough to kill her… then I shall do it myself."