The outer gates did not merely break; they surrendered.
A tidal wave of humanity spilled into the courtyard, their collective roar curdling the air with a single, jagged demand: "Death to the Queen! Down with the Tyrant!"
Inside the throne room, the symphony of destruction drew closer. The frantic splintering of wood and the rhythmic thud of stones against marble echoed through the halls.
The palace guards stood their ground, a thin line of steel against an ocean of rage, but it was a losing battle.
Queen Evangeline Hart stood amidst the encroaching chaos, her silhouette framed by the flickering candlelight. With a slow, ghostly elegance, she raised her hand, signaling the Commander of the Knights.
Commander Varis moved instantly, his armor clanking as he dropped to one knee at her feet in a gesture of unwavering fealty.
"Take the Knights of the Ace," she commanded, her voice a calm blade cutting through the noise. "Withdraw. Now."
Varis bolted upright, his face a mask of pure shock. "Your Majesty? No. I swore an oath—my life is your shield. I will not leave you to this rabble!"
Evangeline fixed him with a gaze as piercing and cold as winter moonlight.
"Lord Varis," she said, the authority of a thousand years in her tone, "this is a direct command from your Sovereign."
"But Your Majesty, I—"
"No 'buts'," she snapped, her composure momentarily cracking to reveal the iron beneath. "You cannot stem this tide, and I will not have your blood staining my floors for a lost cause. Go. Let this be the final command I issue as your Queen."
The Commander's shoulders slumped, the weight of a kingdom's end crushing his spirit. He bowed his head low, then turned to the remaining men with a voice that cracked like thunder.
"Guards! Fall back! Retreat!"
One by one, the boots echoed away, leaving the Great Hall in a deafening silence that was soon swallowed by the approaching screams of the mob.
Evangeline remained seated upon the obsidian throne. Her raven hair tumbled over her shoulders like a mourning veil, held in place by a crown of jagged gold and blood-red rubies.
Her eyes—rare, crimson orbs—remained fixed on the heavy oak doors. Behind that calm facade, a bitter cold took root; the sting of betrayal was sharper than any blade.
She searched her memories, wandering through the halls of her reign, wondering at what precise moment the love of her people had curdled into such visceral hate.
Her gaze drifted to the consort's throne beside her. It sat hollow and cold, a silent testament to a ghost.
"Absent as always, Julian," she whispered, her voice laced with a bitter, jagged irony. "A King in title, yet a shadow in spirit."
The cacophony outside reached a fever pitch. The heavy oak doors groaned under the weight of the mob; the wood began to splinter, weeping sawdust like white blood.
As the first cracks appeared, a tremor took hold of Evangeline's hand where it rested on the arm of the throne. Despite her iron resolve, the cold reality of mortality began to sink in. Death, she realized, was a terrifying guest to wait for.
Then, a sudden warmth enveloped her trembling fingers.
She turned, her breath catching, to find Silver standing there. With an effortless, nonchalant grace, he sank into the vacant King's throne.
He tilted his head from side to side, a faint, enigmatic smile playing on his lips as he surveyed the collapsing doorway.
The Queen did not smile back. Instead, a single, hot tear broke free and traced a path down her cheek.
"Silver, you fool... leave this place. They are moments away. If they find you here, they will—"
He reached out, pressing a gentle finger against her lips to silence the plea. With his other hand, he brushed away the salt of her tears.
"You are the Queen," he murmured, his voice a soothing balm against the roar of the crowd. "A Queen does not weep before the world. If you must embrace the end, do so with your head held high. Die with your majesty intact."
Evangeline let out a long, shuddering breath, and finally, a small, genuine smile flickered across her face—fragile but bright.
"You are right," she conceded.
Silver's eyes softened. "There it is. I have lived an entire lifetime just to see you smile like that."
"Now, please," she begged, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Go. Save yourself."
"You spent your life ranking men like a deck of cards," Silver replied, his smile widening into something defiant. "And you always labeled me your Joker. The Joker follows no rules, my Lady, and serves no master. I fear I must commit the ultimate treason: I am staying."
The words had barely left his lips when the great doors finally gave way. With a thunderous crash, the wood shattered into a thousand shards, and the room was flooded with the gray light of the hallway and the crimson fury of the rebellion.
"There she sits! The Scarlet Bitch is there!" a voice shrieked from the vanguard of the mob.
The cry ignited the crowd, and they surged forward, a sea of ragged clothes and rusted steel pouring down the long, cavernous stretch of the throne room.
Silver stepped down from the consort's chair, positioning himself as a solitary wall between the Queen and the coming storm. He did not look at the peasants; his eyes remained locked on Evangeline's.
"Your Majesty," he said, his voice low and urgent. "They do not merely seek your life. They mean to break you—to parade your agony and stain your name for eternity. Will you grant me the honor of taking your precious soul before they can touch it?"
Evangeline watched the wave of fury drawing closer, the glint of their pitchforks catching the torchlight. She looked back at the only man who had never abandoned her.
Silver turned to her, his playful facade stripped away to reveal a raw, jagged desperation.
"Your Majesty," he began, his voice trembling with a gravity she had never heard. "They do not merely seek your crown. They hunger for your agony. They intend to desecrate your name and tear your spirit apart long before they let you die."
With a fluid, practiced motion, he drew the twin daggers he had spent years twirling as a mere jester. He held them out—the steel catching the flickering torchlight. One he offered to her, the hilt warm from his palm; the other he gripped tightly for himself.
"It would be my highest honor," he whispered, his eyes searching hers, "if you were to pass by my hand rather than be defiled by those hounds. One blade for you, and one for me. For I have no desire to draw breath in a world where you no longer walk."
A faint, haunting smile touched Evangeline's lips. The terror of the mob faded into the background, leaving only the two of them in a circle of tragic silence. She reached out and took the dagger, her fingers brushing his.
"To die by your steel, Silver," she whispered, her voice as soft as silk, "is the only grace I have left to claim."
Without a moment's hesitation, she pressed the cold point of the blade against the silk covering her heart. With a steady hand and eyes locked onto his, she drove the metal home, choosing her own end before his very eyes.
A single, crystalline tear escaped the eye of the jester who had dedicated his life to her laughter. With a steady hand and a breaking heart, he drove the blade home, straight into the center of her chest.
Evangeline's breath hitched. As the world began to blur, she reached out a trembling hand to brush the tear from his cheek—a final act of tenderness.
But before her fingers could touch him, a rebel's sword erupted through Silver's chest from behind. He gasped, his lifeblood spilling onto the pristine white marble as he collapsed at her feet.
Darkness claimed her then, the image of his blood on the white stone burned into her fading vision.
The darkness did not last.
A persistent, rhythmic thudding pulled her from the void. At first, she tried to ignore it, clinging to the silence of the grave, but the noise grew insistent.
"Your Majesty? It is time for breakfast. May I have permission to enter?"
Evangeline's eyes snapped open.
She was greeted not by the cold stone of a tomb, but by a ceiling intricately painted with sprawling red roses. A stray petal, loosened by time or a breeze, drifted down and landed softly on her cheek.
She touched it. It was velvety, cool, and unmistakably real.
Too real for the afterlife, she thought, her heart hammering against her ribs—not with the pain of a dagger, but with the frantic rhythm of the living.
She flung herself from the silk sheets and scrambled toward her desk. With shaking hands, she threw open her leather-bound journal. Her eyes scanned the ink, searching for the date.
The blood drained from her face. The numbers stared back at her, cold and clear.
It was two years before the Great Rebellion. Two years before the fires. Two years before the fall.
The rhythmic thudding against the wood continued, echoing the frantic pulse in Evangeline's throat.
"Enter," she commanded. Her voice sounded strange to her own ears—sharper, younger, yet carrying the weight of a ghost.
The heavy door creaked open, and a maid scurried in. The girl was trembling so violently the silver tray in her hands rattled like dry bones.
She dropped to her knees instantly, her forehead nearly touching the plush rug. "Your Majesty... I have brought your breakfast. Please, forgive the intrusion."
Evangeline leaned forward, her eyes narrowing as she scrutinized the girl. The recognition hit her like a physical blow.
How could she ever forget that face? This was the same girl she had sent to the gallows two years ago, executed on a whim for the "crime" of disturbing the Queen's morning silence.
"You are Luna, are you not?" Evangeline asked, her voice a low murmur.
The maid flinched, her voice coming out in a terrified squeak. "Y-yes, Your Majesty. That is correct."
Evangeline stared at the girl's neck—the neck she had once ordered broken by a noose—now pale and whole. A wave of nausea rolled over her.
"You may leave," she said abruptly. "Go. Now."
Luna didn't wait for a second command. She scrambled to her feet and fled the room as if the shadows themselves were reaching for her, desperate to escape with her life while the Queen was in a merciful mood.
Left alone in the stifling silence of the solar, Evangeline slumped against the heavy mahogany table. She pressed her palms against her temples, trying to contain the dizzying rush of memories.
"My God," she whispered to the empty room, her breath hitching. "I have returned. It wasn't a fever dream... it wasn't the delusions of a dying mind. I remember the cold of the steel, the smell of the smoke, the look in Silver's eyes..."
She looked down at her hands—smooth, unblemished, and free of the blood that had stained them in the throne room.
A shuddering laugh escaped her lips. "I am truly back."