Blood

The room was silent as her words hung in the air, a chilling promise of what was to come.

Panic flared in Valeria's chest as Lord Geralt lunged at her with a concealed dagger, his face twisted in desperation. Her body froze, her mind racing with conflicting instincts. Was this how it ended? But before she could consciously react, something deep within her stirred a primal force she barely understood.

Shadows coiled around her, faster than thought, and with a sickening sound, Geralt's hand was severed at the wrist. The dagger clattered to the ground, and blood sprayed in an arc, splattering across her face and garments.

The room erupted into chaos. Geralt collapsed to the floor, clutching his stump, his screams piercing the air. Lady Mircella scrambled away, her face pale as death. The acrid scent of blood filled Valeria's nostrils, making her stomach churn, but she forced herself to stand tall.

A smile terrifying and cold spread across her lips. She didn't choose it; it came unbidden, as if her body had a will of its own. The nobles shrank back, their terror palpable. Only Arlen seemed unfazed, his own grin widening as if he were enjoying the spectacle.

Valeria clenched her fists, willing the shadows to dissipate. She could feel the nobles' gazes on her, fear radiating from every corner of the room. "Guards!" she barked, her voice sharper than she intended.

The heavy doors swung open, and a squad of royal guards rushed in. Their armor gleamed under the flickering chandeliers, polished steel adorned with dark blue accents that marked them as the Empress's elite. Their faces were stoic, though their eyes betrayed a flicker of unease at the scene before them.

"Seize these traitors," Valeria ordered, her voice icy and commanding.

Two guards moved to restrain Geralt, who was writhing on the floor, his cries weakening as blood pooled beneath him. Two more approached Lady Mircella, who offered no resistance, her trembling hands raised in surrender.

"Throw them in the dungeons," Valeria continued. "Let them rot until the day of their execution."

The guards bowed and acted swiftly, dragging the two culprits from the room. Geralt's screams faded into the distance, leaving behind a chilling silence.

As the blood-soaked scene sank in, Valeria felt a wave of nausea crash over her. The metallic tang in the air was overwhelming, and her clothes clung to her skin, sticky with blood. She needed to get out of this room before she lost her composure.

She turned to the remaining nobles, her expression hard as steel. "This meeting is over," she declared. "Leave."

No one hesitated. The nobles scrambled to their feet and hurried out, their heads bowed, their movements frantic as they tried to avoid her gaze. Even the sound of their footfalls seemed muted, as if the very room were holding its breath.

Once the last of them had fled, Arlen clapped his hands, the sound startling in the sudden quiet. "Well done, Your Majesty," he said with a note of amusement. "I doubt any of them will dare cross you again."

Valeria shot him a glare, but her heart wasn't in it. She was too drained, too shaken by what had just happened. "Arlen," she said, her voice quieter now. "Have someone clean the blood from the council room. I can't stand the sight of it."

"Of course, Your Majesty," he replied smoothly, bowing slightly.

Without waiting for his usual quip, Valeria turned on her heel and left the room, her boots clicking against the marble floor.

The walk back to her chambers felt interminable. Every servant she passed froze at the sight of her, their eyes widening as they took in the blood staining her face and clothes. Whispers trailed behind her like shadows, but no one dared approach.

When she finally reached her quarters, she let out a shaky breath. "Wait here," she told Arlen. "I need... a moment."

He inclined his head. "As you wish, Your Majesty."

Valeria stepped inside and closed the door firmly behind her. The silence was deafening, and for a moment, she simply stood there, her back against the door.

Her hands trembled as she touched her face, her fingertips coming away red. The blood wasn't hers, but it felt as if it had seeped into her very skin. The image of Geralt's severed hand flashed in her mind, and she doubled over, clutching her stomach as a wave of nausea hit her.

Get it together, she told herself, her breaths coming fast and shallow. You're the Empress now. You can't afford to fall apart.

But the shadows within her whispered otherwise.

Desperate to feel clean again, Valeria moved to the adjoining bathroom. The grand tub was already filled, the water steaming and scented with lavender. She began stripping off her bloodied garments, tossing them aside with a grimace.

As she stepped into the bath, the hot water stung her skin, but she welcomed the discomfort. She sank in slowly, letting the warmth envelop her, washing away the blood and the memories of the council room.

Her thoughts swirled as she scrubbed her skin raw. What had she done? That smile so cruel, so unbidden still haunted her. It wasn't hers. It couldn't have been.

Yet it was.

The shadows had acted on their own, responding to the threat without her command. And the nobles' fear? She had felt a sick satisfaction in it, as if some part of her reveled in their terror.

The water turned pink as the last traces of blood washed away. Valeria leaned back, closing her eyes, trying to steady her breathing.

You're not her, she told herself fiercely. You're not the monster they think you are.

But as the shadows flickered in the corners of the room, she couldn't shake the feeling that the line between her and the tyrant Empress was far thinner than she wanted to admit.