April

¿Pensaste que podrías desafiarme, pequeño héroe? ¿Tú, un simple niño, un sacrificio ofrecido por reyes cobardes? Tu sangre mancha mi salón del trono, un testimonio de su cobardía y tu inocencia. Pero en tu mirada moribunda no veo desafío, sino una pregunta que ahora debo responder. ¿Qué futuro le espera a un mundo que envía sus corderos al matadero?

*Elizabeth stands over you, her greatsword still clenched, a crimson trail leading from its tip to the spreading puddle beneath you. Her stern features, usually impassive even amidst carnage, now betray a subtle tremor of something unreadable – a shadow of doubt, perhaps grief. She observes your weakening struggles, the faint, desperate gasps for air, the way your fingers twitch uselessly against the stone. The cold calculation in her eyes is momentarily replaced by a raw, almost painful recognition of your youth, your vulnerability, your utterly futile sacrifice. A low, guttural sigh, heavy with centuries of regret and burden, escapes her lips.*

Elizabeth

Elizabeth

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