The bathwater had long lost its warmth.
The steam that once rose in soft waves had vanished, replaced by a creeping chill that nipped at her skin. Yet Ashtoria did not move. She remained submerged, her body sunken up to her shoulders, her crimson hair floating unevenly atop the water like strands of blood woven into the surface.
Her face was still. But it was not a peaceful stillness—it was the stillness of a tombstone.
Her empty gaze drifted upward, fixed on the dim, stone ceiling lit only by the flicker of candlelight. She had lost count of the hours spent in that silence. Time felt irrelevant in this cold sanctuary. The warmth had long drained from her body, and still, she did not rise.
Only when a faint sense of calm returned did she move.
Ripples broke across the water as she stood. Droplets slid down her pale skin, tapping softly against the stone floor. She took a white towel, previously laid out by the handmaidens, and wrapped it around herself with slow, deliberate movements.
She lingered at the edge of the bath, then looked down into the now-murky water, as if searching for a reflection she no longer recognized—and found nothing at all.
.
.
.
Some time later, Ashtoria sat in the dining hall.
The room was vast and echoing, its silence gilded in grandeur. A chandelier of crystal hung from the high ceiling, casting gentle light down upon a long darkwood table arranged with an array of dishes.
Before her lay a feast: a large platter of roasted meat bathed in a thick, crimson sauce, still steaming and rich in scent; crusty bread served beside herbal butter; fresh salad glistening with golden drops of olive oil and soft white cheese; small cakes filled with pastel-colored fruit cream; and a bowl of hot meat soup fragrant with spices and slow-cooked broth.
Behind her chair, two maids stood still, heads bowed, hands folded tightly before them.
By the side doors stood four guards—two on the left, two on the right. They wore light metallic-gray armor, faces half-covered by helmets. Their eyes stared forward, motionless, posture rigid like statues carved to serve.
From the direction of the kitchens, a middle-aged chef emerged, flanked by two servants. He gently placed the final dish before her—a silver plate of thinly sliced venison, slow-smoked with rare herbs—then bowed and said,
"May Her Majesty find tonight's meal to her liking…"
His voice was low, reverent, cautious.
Ashtoria gave no reply. She only cast a brief glance toward the table.
The chef and his aides retreated at once, disappearing without a sound, as if their very steps feared to offend the stone beneath them.
She remained seated in silence.
None of the rich aromas stirred her appetite. None of the colors tempted her. But after a pause, she reached for the soup. With elegant restraint, she dipped her spoon, paused briefly, and took five measured bites.
Each movement was precise. Not rushed, yet not indulgent. She tilted the spoon at just the right angle, sipped without sound, and swallowed with a straight neck.
Her manner of eating reflected noble training—at least on the surface.
But if one looked closer, there was stiffness to her rhythm. Her motions came a moment too late, her pauses too symmetrical. As if she were rehearsing a memory—learning to mimic the act of a person who once knew how to eat with grace… and nearly succeeding.
After the soup, she reached for a plate of cut fruit—red apples, black grapes, golden honey pears. She consumed five pieces, one by one, with the same quiet precision.
Once finished, she set the utensils down gently, dabbing her lips with a cloth napkin more from form than need.
Then, silence again.
A deep weariness settled over her—one that had nothing to do with the body. A kind of exhaustion that seeped in from the soul. She had only eaten a few bites, and yet it felt as if something inside her had been drained.
She closed her eyes briefly and drew a breath. Then, with grace and effort, she rose from her chair.
She stepped out of the dining room into a long corridor.
The hallway was dim, lit mostly by moonlight streaming in through the tall glass windows that lined the left side. The right wall, built of cold gray stone, absorbed the echo of her footsteps as she walked slowly, almost dragging her feet.
Ashtoria passed window after window, the cool night breeze slipping in through tiny cracks in the panes. She stopped in front of one.
Outside, the night stretched across the land in solemn silence.
The sky was veiled in thin clouds, but the moon still shone through—faint and pale, like the face of a weary goddess. Its light filtered through the glass, painting silver patterns on the stone floor like shifting brushstrokes, alive in the wind.
She stared out for a moment.
The fortress she ruled stood still, bathed in moonlight. The outer gates were closed. The watchtowers stood unmoving. In the distance, the faint glow of village fires flickered like dying stars.
Her reflection shimmered faintly in the glass. The light touched her exposed face, casting soft lines of fatigue and cold resolve. Her eyes, ever sharp, now held a hollowness that no mask or crown could hide.
She turned away.
Sleep. That was all she wanted. To retreat. To rest. Even if only to pretend, for a while, that she could.
But before she could reach the eastern wing, her body wavered.
The world tilted.
Her vision blurred.
And suddenly—she vomited blood.
Dark red. Thick. It spilled from her lips and splashed onto the cold floor, staining the white stone in a grotesque smear.
Two guards several meters behind her immediately stepped forward.
"Your Majesty! Are you all right?" one asked, his voice tense but composed.
Ashtoria did not answer.
Her gaze was fixed on her bloodstained hand.
Pain pulsed in her skull. Her thoughts fragmented. But as she stared at the blood, a single conclusion formed in her mind:
Poison.
Someone had poisoned her.
She opened her mouth to speak—but the words would not come.
In the same moment, both guards drew blades from beneath their armor. The motion was fluid. Expert.
Moonlight caught on the edges of their daggers as they lunged.
Ashtoria moved.
Instincts of war surged in her veins—though her body felt heavy, her mind hazy.
But she was too slow.
One blade found its mark, slicing into her left side. A sharp, tearing pain burst from her gut as blood spilled freely, soaking into the hem of her dress.
She staggered.
The pain spread like wildfire.
And as the world tilted further, only one thought echoed in her mind:
"I've been betrayed."