"I saw it myself… she blew dozens of men apart with just a flick of her hand."
"The Mordune army couldn't even touch her. They just… exploded… for no reason."
"I heard she killed an entire family recently… just because their child didn't bow low enough when showing respect."
"They say her face is ruined. That's why she never takes off that golden helm."
"Our queen… she's powerful, yes. But that kind of power… only demons possess it."
"Our queen… she isn't human."
That last word trembled, yet it struck the hearts of many. They were all speaking of the same person. Their queen. Their savior. And their greatest fear.
Her name finally surfaced, whispered low but heavy with dread:
Ashtoria Iskandrite.
The tyrant queen of Iskandria.
The last sovereign of a royal bloodline that still endured.
Her heavy steps echoed down the main road of the fortress. Iron boots struck the stone with a rhythm slow yet inevitable, like the tolling of an executioner's hammer. Along the way, the surviving soldiers stood in formation. Their bodies were stiff, their hands trembling as they raised their salutes. They bowed their heads, though their eyes darted upward, unable to suppress the fear crawling under their skin.
The remaining townsfolk hid behind shattered walls and broken windows, or clustered together pale-faced in the shadows. Some covered their mouths, others whispered so faintly it was as if they feared the very air would betray them.
Ashtoria heard it all.
Such whispers were nothing new. She was used to them. They always believed their voices would never reach her ears. But they were wrong.
"I heard she tortures prisoners until they lose their minds. They scream for days, until their voices break."
"She… she's a monster."
Her steps halted.
Almost at once, she heard one more voice—different directions, the same word repeated.
Monster.
For the briefest instant, her body shivered, as though restraining anger… or pain.
From the corner of her eye, she saw them. Two women stood at the right side of the road. One bowed nervously. The other turned toward her companion, she was the one who had spoken the word aloud.
To the left, a man among the crowd swallowed hard, his face drained of color. He too had whispered that same word.
Everything fell silent.
The entire fortress seemed to hold its breath. Everyone knew: their queen had stopped. And that meant… something was about to happen.
Ashtoria turned her head slowly. The golden helm crowned with spikes shifted by the slightest degree, enough to pin those beneath her gaze to the earth as though nailed down.
A heartbeat later, the woman's body burst apart.
No warning, just the wet detonation of flesh tearing itself apart. She exploded into a storm of blood and gore, spattering the faces of those nearby.
The man on the left and another unlucky soul too close to him followed, bursting into chunks of meat that clung to the stone walls, dripping from shattered rooftops, staining the clothes of everyone around them. Blood pooled in the street, running through the cracks between the stones, seeping into the boots of the petrified survivors.
Yet no scream came.
Not one dared to make a sound.
They knew a single cry would be enough to trigger the next death.
The air froze, colder than steel, heavier than fog. Only the ragged wind brushing over the fortress remained, tugging at torn banners and pressing even harder against the suffocating silence.
Ashtoria turned back.
Her stride continued, calm and steady, as though the fresh blood on the cobblestones were nothing more than rainwater. As though the flesh plastered on the walls were no more than moss to be ignored.
Above her, storm clouds rolled, heavy and dark, hoarding rain that refused to fall. From behind the sharp edges of her golden helm, eyes gleamed. She lifted her gaze toward the sky, piercing it, before lowering her head again and fixing her sight forward.
Each step carried her closer to the fortress keep, the residence of the local lord now abandoned, handed over to her. And behind her trailed a road of blood, strangled whispers, and a fear that deepened with every heartbeat.
.
.
.
Riven had been curious about the so-called Mad Queen, whose name was carried by so many rumors. But he did not have the time to indulge his curiosity. Something far more important awaited him. He had to be ready for work.
So when Ashtoria appeared amidst the turmoil, Riven was already gone. He never saw the execution that had just taken place. By then, he had slipped out of the fortress, moving carefully away from the chaos of the small war-torn town.
His steps were slow and deliberate. Each placement of his feet was measured. The streets were littered with rubble, shattered fences, and collapsed walls, turning every passage into a minefield of noise. A single misstep could draw unwanted attention. Riven knew too well that in the ruins of war, spies and scavengers were everywhere.
The house he sought lay on the outskirts, far from other homes. Its isolation made it perfect. No nosy neighbors, no watchful spies, no soldier willing to waste effort walking so far just to inspect a rotting shack.
Another reason he chose this house was practical: if the city ever fell to the enemy, he and his sister would have a chance to escape.
The locals had told him it once belonged to an old hunter who lived there with his two grandchildren. But when the Mordune army struck, the hunter fled with them in haste, leaving the place behind.
For Riven, such an opportunity could not be ignored.
He had watched the house for hours. He made sure there were no traps waiting for thieves, no sudden return of its former occupants, no suspicious neighbors watching. Once certain it was truly abandoned, he and his sister slipped inside and quietly claimed it as their own.
That was how they survived. Moving from one abandoned home to another. Following the stench of battle, not to fight or become heroes, but to scavenge. Corpses, ruins, looted warehouses, forsaken houses—these were their lifelines.
Riven no longer kept count of the lies he had told, the things he had stolen, or the trinkets he had bartered just to earn a handful of coins. Only one thing mattered to him: survival. Surviving one more day with his sister, and then one more after that. All while clinging to the hope that one day they might live a normal life.
That was why he worked so hard.
The sun was almost gone by the time he reached the door. He slipped inside, pushing it shut carefully so the rusted hinges would not creak. Holding his breath, he stood still, ears straining for any sound. The room was dark and cold, thick with dust and the scent of rotting wood. For the moment, he felt safe.
But before he could take another step, a sharp voice cut through the silence.
"Who's there?"
The tone was edged with suspicion, yet it carried a strange familiarity.