The throne was cold, even after all these years. Its jagged edges of bone and steel pressed into

  her back, a constant reminder of what she had claimed—and what it had cost her. The chamber

  was as vast and silent as the day she had first taken her seat, the ash still falling faintly from the

  sky beyond the shattered windows.

  Lily sat motionless; her crimson eyes half-closed as she gazed at the barren landscape outside.

  Her fingers drummed idly on the throne’s armrest, the sound echoing in the emptiness. Around

  her, shadows danced, whispering promises and threats.

  “Do they still call me the Thorn?” she asked, her voice soft yet laced with something sharper.

  The figure before her, a robed emissary from the southern kingdoms, hesitated. His hands

  trembled as he gripped the edges of his cloak. “They… they call you many things, my lady.

  Savior. Tyrant. Judge.”

  Lily let out a low chuckle, the sound hollow and bitter. “Is that all? I’m sure they’ve come up

  with worse.”

  The emissary swallowed hard. “The people… they don’t know whether to fear you or worship

  you. You’ve saved entire cities, yet you’ve left others to burn. You’ve granted mercy to some

  and delivered wrath to others. They call you…” He hesitated again, as if saying the next words

  aloud might seal his fate.

  “They call you the Red Queen.”

  Her lips twitched into a faint smile. “The Red Queen.” She leaned forward, her gaze pinning the

  man in place like a predator sizing up prey. “Do you think they’re right to call me that?”

  The emissary stammered, searching for a response, but Lily waved him off before he could

  answer. She stood, the Mark of Cain burning faintly on her chest, its glow seeping through the

  fabric of her tunic.

  “Tell them this,” she said, her voice suddenly sharp and commanding. “Tell them I am neither

  savior nor tyrant. Tell them I am *balance*. Those who deserve mercy will find it. Those who

  deserve punishment will meet it.”

  Her hand rested briefly on the hilt of the sword at her side—a relic she had reforged from Cain’s

  own weapon, its blade shimmering with an unearthly crimson light. “And tell them, "She added,

  her tone dropping to a dangerous whisper, “that I will not be questioned.”

  The emissary nodded frantically and fled, his footsteps echoing down the dark hall.

  When the sound of his retreat faded, Lily turned back to the window. The ash had begun to mix

  with snow, the first sign of life returning to the wastelands. But in the distance, she could still see

  the shadows of cities wreathed in fire, kingdoms tearing themselves apart in their greed, fear, and

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  ambition.

  The Mark on her chest pulsed faintly, its power thrumming through her veins. She could feel the

  weight of every life she’d touched—every life she’d taken. And for a fleeting moment, she

  wondered if this was what Cain had felt as he sat upon this same throne.

  Was she a hero, shaping the world for the better? Or was she just another tyrant, using power as

  a blunt instrument to impose her will?

  Lily didn’t have an answer.

  She only knew that the world demanded something of her, and she would give it—whether it

  was salvation or destruction.

  And so, she sat, the Red Queen, watching over her broken kingdom as the ash and snow fell. A

  hero. A villain. Or something far more dangerous: the one who would decide which was which.

  Lily sat alone on the throne, the weight of the castle pressing down like an iron shroud. The

  distant rumble of the volcano was her only company, its tremors a reminder of the ceaseless fire

  beneath her feet. The ash drifted lazily through the air, coating her crimson hair and shoulders,

  but she paid it no mind.

  From her pocket, she pulled out four rings—small, unassuming things that seemed far too simple

  to hold the power they did. Each one glimmered faintly, their bands etched with intricate

  symbols: War’s fury, Famine’s hunger, Pestilence’s decay, and Death’s inevitability.

  Lily held them in her palm, staring at them for what felt like hours.

  “I have them now,” she murmured, her voice barely a whisper. “Everything you all fought for.

  Everything we suffered for.”

  Her hand trembled, and her gaze flicked to the far corner of the room, where the shadows

  seemed darker. She could almost see him standing there—Elias, grinning as he always did, his

  hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword. He wasn’t there, of course. Not anymore.

  “But soon, Elias,” she said, her voice hardening as she closed her fingers around the rings. “I’ll

  have what I need to bring you back.”

  The words hung in the air, heavy with determination and something darker—an edge of

  desperation.

  She slipped the rings back into her pocket and stood, her hand brushing the hilt of her reforged

  blade. The Mark of Cain burned faintly against her chest, a reminder of the price she had already

  paid and the promises she had yet to fulfill.

  The world outside the castle was vast, broken, and teetering on the edge of ruin. But Lily had no

  intention of letting it fall—at least, not until she had what she needed.

  She glanced back at the throne one last time before stepping into the ash-streaked night.