Crimson Throne
The heart of the Shadowlands pulsed like a living wound.
Crimson light spilled from cracks in the black stone, glowing veins that throbbed with unnatural rhythm. The air was thick with whispers — the sound of lost souls weeping and praying, their voices drawn to the new queen who had claimed dominion here.
Mona stood in the center of it all, bathed in bloodlight.
The power she had drunk now lived inside her like a second heart. It pulsed with every breath, whispering promises in an ancient tongue. The sigil at her throat burned brighter than ever, its lines etched deep into her skin. Her hair flowed like liquid gold, but her eyes — once warm amber — were pools of crimson flame.
She had never felt so alive.
Around her, the shadows bent in worship. Once Lucien’s domain,
