The heavy oak doors closed with a final, echoing thud, and the iron bolts slid into place. Helga of Northem was queen no longer.
The guards shifted uneasily in the corridor. From behind the sealed chamber, the muffled sound of her laughter bled through—a sound not loud now, but low, broken, gnawing like rats in the dark. Some averted their eyes; others whispered prayers. The younger among them could not hide their trembling.
Within, Helga stood alone.
The candle flames had guttered, drowning the room in pools of shadow. Her reflection wavered in the cracked porcelain of the teacup shards, distorted, fragmented—a face she barely recognized. Her chest rose and fell, breath shallow, uneven. The silence pressed heavy on her head, louder than any scream.
She staggered to the portrait again. Reuben's painted eyes gazed down upon her—bright, unbroken, proud. She reached up, touched the canvas, her fingers trembling against the frozen smile of a son who no longer existed as he used to.
