Cold Atlantic wind rattles the stained-glass windows of Blackthorne Castle as the camera slowly tracks behind King Alaric walking alone through dim royal corridors lit only by dying candlelight.

His boots echo against centuries-old stone.

No guards.

No servants.

Just silence heavy enough to feel alive.

Portraits of dead monarchs watch from the walls as the King moves deeper into the private wing of the castle. His expression is exhausted—less like a ruler returning home and more like a man avoiding something waiting for him there.

Thunder rolls across the sea cliffs outside.

The torches flicker.

Then suddenly—

One of them extinguishes completely as Alaric passes.

He stops walking.

A faint unease crosses his face.

The corridor ahead remains dark except for warm candlelight leaking from beneath the doors of his private chamber.

The King frowns slowly.

He left no candles burning.

His hand moves instinctively toward the sword at his side.

The chamber doors creak open.

Inside, soft golden light dances across velvet curtains and ancient oak furniture carved during the first dynasties of Aethelgard.

And sitting calmly on the edge of the King’s bed—

is a woman.

Dark hair cascading over pale shoulders.

Hands folded quietly in her lap.

Wearing the same silver-blue gown she wore twenty years earlier on the night the northern fortress burned.

The camera slowly pushes toward Alaric’s face as all color drains from it.

Because the woman is not merely familiar.

She is impossible.

The King’s breathing becomes uneven.

“How did you get in here?”

His voice carries authority by instinct.

But beneath it—

fear.

Real fear.

The woman lifts her eyes toward him slowly.

Calm.

Certain.

Almost sad.

“You invited me…”

A pause.

“…years ago.”

Lightning flashes violently through the windows.

For one frame, the room appears darker around her—as though the candlelight itself refuses to touch her fully.

Alaric steps backward.

“No…”

The woman rises slowly from the bed.

Not threatening.

Worse.

Intimate.

Like someone returning home after being gone too long.

“You promised the doors of this castle would always remain open to me,” she says softly.

The King stares at her in horror now.

Fragments of memory crash violently through his mind—

A younger version of himself laughing beside the cliffs.

A secret romance hidden beneath royal expectations.

A woman screaming as soldiers dragged her through smoke and fire during the coastal purges.

And himself…

doing nothing.

The camera tightens on Alaric’s trembling hand.

“You died,” he whispers.

The woman tilts her head slightly.

“Did I?”

The candles flicker harder.

One by one, they begin extinguishing around the chamber.

Darkness slowly swallowing the room.

Alaric’s breathing becomes panicked now.

Because the woman has not aged.

Not a single year.

Yet he has grown old carrying the memory of abandoning her to save his throne.

The final candle beside the bed gutters weakly.

The woman steps closer into the fading light.

And the King finally sees it.

Not blood.

Not wounds.

Water.

Atlantic seawater dripping slowly from the hem of her gown onto the stone floor.

As though she has just walked out of the ocean itself.

The camera zooms slowly into Alaric’s face as realization destroys what remains of his composure.

Not confusion.

Recognition.

The horrifying understanding that some promises do not end when kingdoms bury the people they betrayed.

The woman leans close enough to whisper.

“You crowned yourself with my grave.”

The last candle dies.

Complete darkness.

Then—

The sound of the King’s silent scream.

Cut to black.