Ashtoria Belmore.
The Queen of the Belmore Kingdom.
The last ruler of the royal bloodline still standing.
A woman both worshipped and despised at the same time.
Each of her heavy steps echoed through the main road of the fortress, drawing every gaze toward her. The surviving soldiers from the battle stood in formation, giving way with tense postures and fearful eyes. Among them, the civilians who had chosen to stay behind said nothing. Some hid their faces, while others whispered quietly to one another.
Ashtoria heard it all.
"Her face is completely ruined. That's why she wears that terrifying mask."
"… "
At first, Ashtoria ignored them.
Such whispers were nothing new.
"I heard she tortures her prisoners until they go insane. Her dungeon walls are covered with body parts."
"She's a monster."
But then, she suddenly stopped walking.
On the right side of the road stood three people—two men and a middle-aged woman. The woman was one of the ones speaking just now, the one who had dared to call her a monster. When the queen halted, it was as if the entire street stopped breathing.
Ashtoria turned her head.
Without a word, she raised her hand.
And instantly—without a spell, without warning—the woman exploded.
Her body burst into pieces of flesh and blood. Red liquid splattered across the two men beside her. Her remains clung to the stone walls, soaked the clothes of those nearby, leaving behind nothing but an unrecognizable mess.
Yet no one screamed.
Not a single voice came from the crowd.
They all knew: one scream, one gasp, and they could be next.
Silence froze the air.
Ashtoria lowered her hand and resumed walking, as if nothing had happened.
As if that blood was just dust on the road.
Gray clouds churned above her. Heavy, thick, as if holding back rain that never fell. She looked up from beneath her golden helmet, which was carved like a crown of thorns. From the narrow slit in her helm, her eyes pierced the heavens.
Her footsteps led her to the heart of the fortress—the estate of the local lord, long since abandoned for her use.
The large wooden door slowly creaked open as she approached.
A few servants stepped forward to greet her, but froze halfway through. One of them—a young woman—bowed so deeply it nearly became a full prostration. Her voice trembled as she spoke.
"Y-Your Majesty… everything is ready…"
Ashtoria gave a slight nod, offering no reply.
Without a word, she entered the massive stone residence, letting the doors close behind her.
.
.
.
Ashtoria moved silently through the hallways toward the bathing chamber. A wide, pristine stone room, its center held a steaming bath infused with fragrant herbs. Large candles flickered in the corners, casting long shadows across the walls.
Just before entering, she turned to the servants waiting in the corridor behind her, still bowing in fear.
"Whatever happens," she said in a low, even voice, "no one is to enter... unless I call for you."
They nodded rapidly, saying nothing, retreating as if a single wrong breath could mean their death.
Once she shut the door, her terrifying helmet melted into golden light and vanished into the air. Her fiery red hair spilled down over her shoulders and back like a curtain of blood.
She approached the tall mirror on the wall. Silent. Slowly tilting her head, she stared at her reflection with sharp, doubtful eyes.
'Am I really… that hideous?'
'Am I… a monster?'
Her fingers brushed the glass—cold and smooth. But it gave her no answer.
And then she saw something that stole her breath.
The mirror—no, her reflection—smirked.
Its mouth moved without her own, and the words came, faint but devastating:
"Monster…"
"You enjoyed it, didn't you? Watching that woman explode. Hearing her flesh tear. Feeling her blood hit the ground."
"You're cruel, Ashtoria. Even demons fear you."
"You kill… simply because you can."
Her eyes widened.
"NO!" she screamed.
Her fist slammed into the mirror with inhuman force.
CRAAKK!!
Glass shattered, shards scattering across the floor like fallen stars. Some lodged into her skin, but she didn't care. Her eyes burned red, her chest heaving, breath ragged.
"It wasn't my fault…" she whispered shakily. "It was them! They're the ungrateful ones! I saved them—I saved everyone!"
She spun, eyes scanning the scattered fragments on the ground. But what she saw wasn't herself—it was faces.
Faces of the people she had killed.
One by one. Too many to count.
Her father's face… cold, full of hatred.
Her mother's… staring at her with wordless disappointment.
Her younger sibling… still so small, so innocent, once calling her "big sister"… now calling her:
"Monster."
"You should've died, Ashtoria…" their voices echoed from the broken shards.
"You don't deserve to live. The world would be better without you…"
"NO!!" she screamed again, clutching her ears.
And in that moment, every piece of glass in the room shattered into dust—disintegrated by a power she couldn't hold back. Gone, like a memory that refused to be buried.
Silence returned. Her ears rang. Her chest still trembled. And finally—tears fell. Slowly, one by one, trailing down her cheeks.
A soundless cry. A wound that could never heal.
"…I am a monster…" she muttered, barely audible.
Her body trembled—not from rage, not from power—
But from a loneliness that suffocated her soul.
Without another word, she removed all of her clothing—
The black armor, the crimson cloak, the protective layers she had worn like a second skin for years.
Piece by piece, they fell to the cold stone floor.
Her body—scarred in ways both seen and unseen—was exposed under the flickering candlelight.
She walked slowly to the large bath, its surface still steaming gently, scented with flowers and soothing herbs… perhaps meant for her body… or her soul.
Ashtoria stepped into the water.
Slowly.
Silently.
Warmth met her skin, washing over the unseen bruises and invisible wounds.
When her body was finally submerged, only her head remained above the surface. Her crimson hair fanned out around her like blood spreading across the water.
She closed her eyes.