[Valentine Queendom, Thorian Realm]
"You killed her!" King Lukas Valentine's voice tore through the air like a blade, raw with grief and rage. His eyes, wide and bloodshot, fixated on me with a ferocity that matched the tremble in his clenched fists. "You killed Juliette, you vicious wretch! You murderer! She gave you everything—shelter, food, protection—and this is how you repay her?"
I stood in silence, shackled and bound by magic-infused chains that burned against my skin. My gaze locked with his, cold and dead, stripped of remorse. I didn't flinch. I didn't cower. I didn't care. I wanted him dead, and that desire scorched through my veins hotter than any spell they could conjure.
This wasn't about Juliette. Not truly. She should have never touched his wine. The poison was meant for him, for the king who stole everything from me. It was his fate to drink the death I had prepared, not hers. She was never the target, though I can't say I mourn her. I never liked her, but I never hated her either. She was a bystander in the war between me and him. My enemy has always been the man who stood screaming before me now—my father, Lukas Valentine.
He took my mother from me.
He took her life, her throne, and the Queendom she was born to rule. This land was not meant to be led by a man. It had always been passed down through the female bloodline, a sacred tradition twisted by the blade of a murderer and the greed of a tyrant. He broke that order and declared himself king after spilling her royal blood. And if that betrayal wasn't enough, he then crowned his bastard son—born just two weeks before me—the heir to the throne, robbing me of the legacy that was rightfully mine.
He took everything.
If it weren't for the enchanted bindings crawling up my arms like venomous vines, suppressing my magic, I would have already unleashed the storm within me. I would have struck him down where he stood, even if it meant dying moments later. But no, I was trapped, magicless, bound to face execution like a common criminal.
Juliette was a fool. What was she trying to prove by drinking from his cup? That she was loyal? That she was brave? She should've known better. He discards his women like old garments once the novelty wears off. She was never the exception. Just another in a long line.
"She never took care of me," I said, my voice steady, my tone venomous. I met his glare with one of my own, unyielding, unrepentant. I no longer cared about crowns or courts. All I cared about was the truth—spoken, sharp, and unfiltered. "And neither did you. But at least now you finally understand what it feels like to lose someone you love. Now you know how I felt when you murdered my mother." The last words dripped from my lips like acid, and I spit at his feet for good measure.
His fury ignited like wildfire. He pressed the edge of his sword to my throat, the cold steel biting into my skin. "You will pay for your crimes with your blood," he growled. "I curse your soul to burn in the deepest pit of hell until the stars die and the realms collapse upon one another. Let eternity become your torment."
The crowd stretched in every direction, a sea of blank, hungry faces eager for blood. Above them all, I felt his gaze—intense, familiar, unshakable. To my left, hidden but near, the golden eyes of Yato Gregorio bore into me. The head of the assassin's guild. My soulmate. My protector. The shadow that's followed me since my mother's death. I had been ten. He was thirteen. We grew together, closer with every shared breath, every stolen glance, until love bloomed like a sword drawn in silence. He became mine when I was nineteen, and he was twenty-two. No one knew me like he did. No one ever would.
I told him to stay away from this. Begged him, even. But I knew better. Had it been him in chains, I would have burned the world down to stand by his side. That's how deep our bond runs—past reason, past fear, past survival.
A wave of panic surged in me as I felt his shadow magic slither through the air, an omen of what was coming. In an instant, he appeared—bursting from the crowd and landing like a dark storm on the execution platform. The king staggered back, startled, nearly slicing my throat. But Yato was faster. Always faster. He seized the blade in his bare hand, blood trickling down his fingers as he pushed it away from my neck, his golden eyes locked on Lukas with a fury that turned the air heavy.
"If you intend to kill Anna," he said, his voice low and edged with steel, "you will have to go through me first, Lukas Valentine."
And for the first time, I saw fear spark in the eyes of the king.
"Yato!" I cried out, the raw panic in my voice cutting through the chaos like a whip. "He has light magic!"
Yato didn't flinch. He didn't even blink. Instead, his golden eyes narrowed into slits of rage as the shadows that clung to him like a second skin surged outward, flooding the space around us in tendrils of darkness. "I don't give a fuck," he growled, his voice low and brimming with deadly resolve.
The temperature dropped. The light flickered. Everything around us seemed to hold its breath as shadow and light collided. But my fear only deepened.
There was something wrong.
Deeply, terrifyingly wrong.
The magic in the air shifted—no longer just elemental, but cosmic, untethered, chaotic. I felt it in my bones first, a pressure like the weight of an entire mountain pressing into my chest. Then I looked up—and my breath caught in my throat.
A gash had formed in the sky above us. Not just in the clouds—but in the fabric of reality itself. A slit, jagged and glowing with impossible colors, widening by the second. It was as if the world itself was tearing apart. And from within that rift, things began to emerge. Twisted shapes, half-formed nightmares from a world not meant to touch ours. While at the same time, I watched pieces of our realm—stones, birds, spirits—get pulled into theirs, vanishing into the unknown.
"What the—"
I never finished.
The moment the words touched my lips, I felt it—too late. A presence behind me. Cold, immense, and ancient. Then two massive hands gripped my head, fingers digging into my skull. I barely had time to scream before the sharp twist came.
Crack.
The sound echoed through my ears like thunder.
Pain exploded, white-hot and paralyzing, but only for an instant. The next second, I felt the unnatural tear of flesh as those same hands ripped my head from my neck with brute force. There was no weapon. Just hands. Hands that tore me apart like paper.
I couldn't see the face of whoever—or whatever—was behind me, but I smelled them in those final, horrifying moments. Burnt tobacco. A deep, rich musk of agarwood. The scent was overwhelming, searing itself into my memory even as death claimed me.
And then—
Stillness.
Silence.
From outside my broken body, I watched it all unfold.
My soul hovered above the scene, weightless and numb. I saw Yato as he turned—just a moment too late. His eyes met my lifeless form, and everything inside him shattered. His knees gave out beneath him. He collapsed beside me, his hands trembling as they reached for my body, as if holding me might bring me back. A scream erupted from him—pure agony, wild and broken—as he realized I was gone.
And then, without hesitation, without a second thought, he drew both daggers from his belt.
"With you… always," he whispered.
And he dragged the blades across his throat in a single, fluid motion, spilling his life to join mine. Blood poured down his chest, soaking the shadows that still curled around him like mourning veils. He collapsed beside me, eyes wide, still staring at my face even in death.
The world grew quieter still.
My soul began to move again—no, not by choice. I was being pulled. Drawn, like a thread caught in a storm. The rift in the sky had grown wider, its edges crackling with energy. It was a portal—no, something older, something primal. And it was calling to me.
I felt my consciousness begin to unravel, stretching thin like smoke in the wind, tugged toward the growing tear in our reality. The slit yawned wider, a black maw, swallowing me whole.
And then—
Darkness.
Total, unrelenting black.
The kind that feels endless.
The kind that waits.