That night, behind the sealed doors of her chambers, Queen Helga wept. Not the quiet sobs of a grieving mother, but the raw, ragged cries of a woman stripped bare. She wept for her son, whose young body lay broken beyond repair. For her birthday feast, meant for joy, turned into a funeral dirge. For her kingdom, mocked and bloodied before the eyes of its enemies. Her sorrow battered the stone walls, turning the once-safe haven of her room into something hollow as a tomb.
At the foot of her family portrait, Helga knelt. Her hands clutched tightly in her lap, knuckles pale, as though in desperate prayer. Candlelight trembled across her face, carving deep shadows that flickered between anguish and something far darker: the cold gleam of vengeance.
"Forgive me," she breathed, voice hoarse. She whispered to no one. "Forgive my blindness. My vanity has cost us blood and honor. But no more."
She raised her head. Her tear-streaked face hardened, eyes narrowing into steel.
