The Queen sat alone in her dimly lit chamber, shadows painting her face with streaks of torment. The air smelled faintly of blood and dried roses—once symbols of her strength, now mere perfume to mask the rot settling inside her.
Her hands trembled as she clutched the fabric near her shoulder. The bite mark throbbed, an ugly, festering wound blackened at the edges and weeping slow poison beneath the surface. She had hidden it for days. She'd convinced herself it was nothing. But now—now, she knew.
She was dying.
Her reflection in the mirror across the room mocked her. Not the immortal vision of a Queen, but a cracked porcelain mask of a woman unraveling. Sweat gathered on her brow, rolling slowly down her temples. She wiped it away with a trembling hand, her nails digging into her palm to stop herself from screaming.
Fear.
