Selena stormed down the palace's marble corridors, a maelstrom of fury and sorrow driving her forward. When she finally pushed open the grand doors of the throne room, she expected the grim tableau of battle—but instead, she found an eerie emptiness. The floor, streaked with dark blood, bore silent testimony to violence, yet neither the body of her beloved king nor any trace of his presence remained. Rage and despair coiled within her as she demanded answers.
A solemn guard soon appeared, escorting her into an opulent chamber filled with the kingdom's most influential ministers, nobles, and high officials. Their eyes, heavy with uncertainty and pity, fixed upon her as she entered. At the head of the assembly stood Mathew, his expression a carefully molded mask of sorrow and resolve. With an imperious gesture, he beckoned her closer.
"Where is my husband?" she demanded, her voice a potent blend of grief and wrath, leaving the assembled ministers in a momentary hush.
Mathew lowered his gaze and began, his voice thick with conflicted emotion. "My queen, allow me to recount that fateful night." He paused as the room stilled, then continued slowly. "Twelve assassins crept into the throne room under the cloak of darkness. Your king—Markas—fought valiantly, felling the first eleven with his renowned skill and bravery. But then, the final assassin emerged from the shadows."
His eyes glistened as he recounted the chilling moment. "That lone foe stepped forth like a specter—a phantom of death with a dagger poised for destruction. In that decisive instant, I saw his blade, gleaming with lethal intent, strike true. I watched in horror as the fatal poison surged through your king's veins."
With a trembling breath, Mathew continued, "Overcome by duty and despair, I raced to his side. In that heart-wrenching moment, I knew fate demanded my intervention. With sorrow, and with a resolve born of years spent in your husband's formidable glow, I drove my blade into the assassin's heart—ending his threat in an instant. Yet, that final, fatal blow had already set the tragic end in motion."
A murmur of disquiet rose among the ministers as Selena's eyes narrowed in fury. "But my husband was never one to fall so easily," she spat, disbelief and indignation intermingling. "How can you claim that he was undone by an enemy's strike—when it was, in truth, you who silenced that final foe?"
Mathew's face darkened with conflicted confession. "I did not covet the crown for its own sake," he murmured, voice faltering between bitterness and a sorrow that hinted at deep remorse. "I only ever longed for recognition—a chance to step out of the long shadow cast by his brilliance. I have lived too long as nothing more than a shadow by his side. When that assassin's dagger found its mark, I could not stand idle. I ensured the story would be told—that our king fell defending us against unseen enemies. But the truth is, I took everything from him… from you… because I felt forever denied."
A thick silence ensued as his words sank into the assembly's shocked hearts. Then, gathering his cloak with deliberate calm, Mathew turned toward the massive doors and raised his voice in a final command: "Guards! Help! Assassins in the throne room!" Within moments, armored boots pounded across the marble floor, yet Mathew lingered not. With one last laden look, he departed into the twisting corridors of the palace, leaving behind a room shrouded in grief, uncertainty, and the bitter sting of betrayal.
That night, under a vault of sorrowful darkness, Selena withdrew to a secluded chamber with Arya. In the soft, trembling light of scattered candles, she wept for the man she had loved—and for the treachery that had torn her world asunder.
At dawn, as the palace awoke to a heavy silence, Luther Long Beard—the youngest head paladin in centuries—approached with humble deference and remorse shadowing his youthful face. "My queen," he began, bowing low, "I apologize for that night's events that left you so vulnerable. Yet I must confess—I harbor grave doubts about the story of the ambush. The details simply do not add up."
Selena's grief hardened into steadfast determination. "Then help me find the truth," she declared, her voice resolute. "I will not accept a tale of martyrdom built on falsehood. I must know who truly ended Markas's life."
Together, she and Luther returned to the fateful throne room—a silent, haunted chamber now echoing with unanswered questions. There, beneath vaulted arches and amidst the lingering scent of battle, they embarked upon a painstaking ritual. Channeling both martial skill and profound sorcery—a rare union of combat and magic—they wove an intricate illusion to replay that tragic night in perfect detail.
For hours they labored, summoning every ounce of power and knowledge. In the shimmering tapestry of magic, every moment materialized: Markas battling with fierce precision and unwavering honor, felling twelve foes with unyielding valor. The phantom tableau reaffirmed what Selena had always believed—her husband had triumphed over every foe by his own unmatched skill.
Yet one question remained, a painful void in the illusory replay: if Markas had vanquished every enemy, who had delivered that final, fatal strike?
As the illusion faded, leaving only the echo of truth in its wake, Selena's resolve crystallized. The truth lay buried beneath layers of deception, and she vowed that no matter the cost, she would unmask the true killer.
Miles away, hidden in a secret chamber deep within the palace, Mathew celebrated in solitude with a select band of loyal followers. Amid whispered congratulations and a veneer of feigned sorrow for a fallen hero, he alone bore the crushing secret: it was he who had ended Markas's life. In that moment of triumph, his inner darkness remained concealed—a secret that would forever haunt him.