The sky was red the night she died.
Not from sunset, but from fire her fire the kind that burned too brightly to be loved, too fiercely to be forgiven.
Lady Evelyne Ashthorn knelt in the royal courtyard, chains biting into her wrists, blood dripping from her gown. Rain kissed her skin like a mockery of mercy.
Across from her, Crown Prince Lucien, the man she once loved, stood in judgment. His golden armor gleamed under torchlight. His words were knives.
You are sentenced to death for high treason.
Her laugh was soft, bitter.
"You should thank me, Lucien. I made it so easy."
Gasps rang out. But Evelyne had no fear left. Only fury.
She watched them all the courtiers who'd clapped at her downfall, the nobles who smiled with sharp teeth, the friend who framed her, the man who promised her forever... now damning her to fire.
"I loved you, you meant everything to me. Why do you want to do this to me! " she whispered as flames roared to life.
He didn't speak.
And then
everything burned.