Kyralia strode toward the throne room with unwavering determination, her expression hard as stone. Each step was purposeful, driven by the plan she had carefully crafted. Yet beneath her resolute exterior, a storm of emotions churned—grief, anger, and a sense of bitter familiarity. These feelings were not new to her; she had walked this path before. It was a cruel cycle she couldn't seem to escape: finding someone to care for, letting herself fall in love, only for tragedy to tear them apart once more.

It felt like she was cursed to relive this cycle over and over again.

The throne room loomed closer with each step Kyralia took, the stone corridors blending into one another, lined with trophies of the King's many conquests and scattered with small windows that let in slivers of pale light. In the distance, the rhythmic echo of her boots on stone drew the attention of nearby guards. The moment they recognized her—their Queen—they snapped into a defensive formation, swords drawn with precision.

Kyralia's expression didn't waver. With a sharp motion of her hand, a bolt of green energy erupted from her palm, crackling as it flew through the air. The energy struck the advancing guards, exploding on impact in a burst of vibrant, swirling green light. The force flung them into the walls on either side, leaving them unconscious where they landed. Without sparing them a second glance, Kyralia continued forward, her steps unwavering.

She stopped before the towering wooden doors to the throne room. They were locked, but such obstacles were beneath her concern. With a flick of her wrist, a powerful wave of energy blasted the double doors off their hinges. The heavy wood soared inward, crashing to the ground with an echoing boom, one panel sliding to the left and the other to the right.

At the far end of the grand hall sat the King, perched upon his throne like a predator surveying its domain. A small army of guards encircled him, their swords drawn and aimed at Kyralia with unwavering focus. The air was thick with tension as they prepared to defend their King against their Queen.

"Come in, my love," Edward called out, his voice dripping with smugness as he attempted to maintain a calm and composed demeanour. Despite the faint tension in his eyes, he masked any hint of weakness in front of his loyal guards.

Kyralia stepped forward, her gaze steady as she arched a single brow in contempt. "Hiding behind your soldiers?" she questioned, her voice cool and cutting, each word sharp enough to draw blood. She strode into the throne room with the poise of someone who knew she commanded power.

"It was only a matter of time before you came," Edward replied, his tone attempting to feign nonchalance as he rose from the throne. Slowly, he descended the short steps, though he kept a safe distance, letting his guards form a wall between them.

"I am no killer," Kyralia stated firmly, her voice resolute. "Death would be far too swift a punishment for you. You deserve more than that."

Edward's lips curled into a defiant sneer. "And yet you come here with the intent to harm," he countered, still lingering behind the protective line of his soldiers. His voice grew louder, bolder, as though to drown out the weight of her words. "Do your worst, Witch! Let the world speak of this for centuries!" His tone boomed, reverberating through the chamber, his pride refusing to yield despite the clear threat she posed.

"No, history will not remember me as an evil witch," Kyralia hissed, her voice trembling with both resolve and pain as she glared at her husband. Her words carried a sharp edge, fueled by her desperation to not be cast as the villain in a tale he had orchestrated. "No one will remember me at all," she added, sadness lacing her tone. A heavy weight settled in her chest as she acknowledged the finality of what she was about to do.

Kyralia extended her arms, palms outstretched toward the King and his guards. Her voice took on an otherworldly resonance as she began to chant, her words in an ancient tongue that carried the weight of power and inevitability. "Nunc memorias et memorias veteris," she intoned, her fingers radiating green energy that crackled like living fire.

"What kind of sorcery is this?!" Edward bellowed, his voice faltering as panic crept into his defiance. He stepped back, his eyes darting toward his guards as though seeking reassurance. None came.

Kyralia didn't answer, her focus unbroken. The spell was hers alone to bear. "Praestigiis mentes mortalium eas cognoscantur," she finished, her voice steady and resolute.

A surge of green energy exploded from her core, the force of it rippling through the throne room. The shockwave swept over the King and his guards, freezing them in place as if time itself had paused. The energy seeped into their minds, the faint green glow tinting their eyes for the briefest moment before fading away. Memories of her—her voice, her presence—were unspooled and unravelled, dissolving like smoke.

But the spell didn't stop there. The green wave expanded, surging through the entire castle. Servants in the kitchens paused mid-task, their hands stilled as the magic stole away fragments of their minds. Guards on patrol blinked, their stern expressions softening as they forgot who she was. Nobles seated in opulent chambers froze momentarily as the green light passed through, erasing every trace of Kyralia from their lives.

Outside the castle, Armin stood by two horses, tightening the saddle straps with practised precision. He didn't see the green energy approach until it passed through him. He jerked upright, his eyes glowing with that same unnatural green for an instant as the spell took hold. The memories of her—their stolen moments beneath the moonlight, the warmth of her laughter, the way her touch lingered on his skin—were stripped away, leaving an empty void in their place. He blinked, shaking his head slightly, unaware of what he had lost.

Back in the throne room, Kyralia's arms fell limply to her sides, and her head bowed under the weight of what she had done. Her chest ached with grief, and the tears that glistened in her eyes reflected the flickering candlelight. The knowledge that Armin—her Armin—no longer remembered her cut deeper than any sword ever could.

But she wouldn't allow herself to break. She lifted her head, forcing herself to stand tall, even as her heart threatened to shatter. There was no going back now, no undoing the spell. The life she had known—the life of royalty, of love, of fleeting happiness—was over.

It was time to move on. Time to leave the castle, the throne, and everything tied to her past behind. And so, with a final glance at the destruction she had left in her wake, Kyralia turned and walked away, her steps echoing softly in the now-silent halls.

...................

For eight years, Kyralia wandered the English countryside, never staying in one place for long. Her life became a tapestry of fleeting moments and passing faces, none of which lingered. News of the outside world trickled to her through the whispers of villagers and the chatter of travellers. She learned that King Edward I had passed away. A year after their own ill-fated union, he had married Margaret of France. Yet, as far as anyone knew, their own wedding had never occurred. The spell had erased all traces of her from history, leaving Kyraila as the sole bearer of the truth.

Edward's son now sat upon the throne, a new chapter for the kingdom she had left behind.

Kyralia also kept quiet tabs on Armin. He was no longer a knight but a simple man, living as a husband and father to two children. She would occasionally hear tales of his peaceful life from those who passed by, their words painting a picture of domestic bliss. Though her heart ached with the weight of what could never be, Kyralia knew she had made the right choice.

Letting him go had been the hardest thing she had ever done, but it had also been necessary. She could never have given him that life—a life of simplicity, of love unburdened by her powers or her past. It wasn't in the cards for her, and deep down, she had always known it.

As much as it pained her, Kyralia found solace in the knowledge that Armin was happy, even if his happiness no longer included her.

Kyralia rode gently on the back of her horse, the rhythmic bounce of the animal's steps a steady comfort as she made her way toward Scotland. The heavy cloak wrapped around her shoulders kept her warm against the crisp air, while the hood shielded her hair from the damp mist clinging to the morning. News had reached her ears of a new king who had risen to power just a year ago, and the idea of exploring Scotland's rugged landscapes and its shifting tides of power intrigued her.

As the horse's hooves clopped steadily along the path, the border between England and Scotland loomed closer. The air grew still, save for the occasional whistle of wind through the trees. Kyralia's sharp senses picked up subtle rustles among the branches, the snap of a twig breaking the quiet. Though it could have been the stirrings of wildlife, the timing and cadence of the sounds made her doubt it.

She tugged gently on the reins, bringing her horse to a halt. The animal snorted softly, its breath curling in the cold air. Kyralia tilted her head, listening intently as the forest seemed to hold its breath. Her eyes scanned the dense undergrowth, searching for any sign of movement. The stillness deepened, broken only by the sudden flutter of wings as startled birds took flight from the trees above.

Then, it came—the distinct sound of approaching footsteps, deliberate and singular, crunching through the fallen leaves. A shiver coursed through Kyralia's right side, a tingling sensation that made the fine hairs on her arm rise in a warning. Her head snapped to the side just as an arrow sliced through the air, its motion slow yet deliberate in her heightened perception.

Instinct took over. She shifted ever so slightly in her saddle, leaning to the left with practised precision. The arrow whistled past her, narrowly missing her ear, before embedding itself with a solid thud into the trunk of a tree behind her.

Time seemed to snap back into motion, the rush of the moment leaving Kyralia with a simmering tension. Her gaze flicked toward the direction the arrow had come from, her body taut and alert. Whoever had loosed the arrow had underestimated her reflexes, but she knew this was no mistake. Someone—or something—was hunting her.

"Do not move a muscle," a deep Scottish voice commanded, clear and resolute, cutting through the stillness like a blade. The man stood firm, his bow drawn taut, the string steady under his practised grip. A cloak of black and ginger fur draped over his broad shoulders, rippling slightly in the gentle breeze.

From her vantage point, Kyralia observed him with keen detail. His golden-brown hair, tied back in a loose knot, allowed unruly strands to escape and frame his face with an effortless grace that seemed unintentional yet striking. His nose was straight and defined, its bridge exuding strength, leading to a mouth that caught her attention more than she cared to admit. Full lips, slightly parted, held a natural curve that danced between a smirk and quiet contemplation, as though he were always on the verge of uttering something clever or cutting. A neatly trimmed goatee added a rugged edge to his otherwise composed appearance. His piercing eyes, a shade of blue so vivid it seemed to cut through the air between them, remained locked on her, unwavering as he sighted down the length of his drawn arrow.

"I suppose you will have to try again," Kyralia quipped, her tone laced with sass. "Missed your first shot."

"I will not miss the second," he replied, his voice low and steady, a dark undertone carried by the tension in his words. The string of his bow drew back even further, the arrow poised to strike.

Kyralia raised a brow, unflinching. "I think you will," she said calmly, her confidence unwavering.

His piercing eyes narrowed, locking onto hers as if trying to dissect her every intention. She mirrored his intensity, the silence between them brimming with unspoken challenges. The air was thick with tension as they stared each other down, each waiting for the other to make a move.

After a moment that stretched like an eternity, the archer relented. Slowly, he lowered his bow, releasing the string with a controlled exhale. The arrow slid smoothly out of its groove, and with a measured motion, he tucked it back into his quiver. His gaze remained fixed on her, suspicion flickering in his eyes, but his weapon was no longer aimed.

"What brings you out here alone?" he asked, his thick Scottish accent adding a captivating charm to his words.

Kyralia hesitated for a moment before replying, her tone blunt. "Heading into Scotland," she said, offering no more than necessary. "I wanted a change of scenery."

His sceptical gaze raked over her, his disbelief evident. "Aye, is that so?" he murmured, taking a cautious step closer. "Nathaniel, at your service," he said finally, dipping his head slightly in a polite nod as he approached her horse.

"Kyra," she replied simply, shortening her name as part of the new identity she intended to adopt.

"Travelling these roads alone is dangerous," Nathaniel remarked, his tone laced with genuine concern.

Kyralia smirked faintly, her hand resting casually on her sword hilt. "I assure you, I know how to protect myself."

"Aye, no doubt," he said with a slight chuckle. "But I would not be much of a man if I did not offer to see you safely to where you are headed."

"Says the man who shot an arrow at me moments ago," she teased, her smirk widening into a small laugh.

Nathaniel rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, his piercing blue eyes meeting hers. "At the time, I was not exactly thinking," he admitted, his voice softening. "There is a village a few days' ride from here. I could guide you if you like?"

Kyralia studied him carefully, her instincts urging caution, though a strange familiarity tugged at the edges of her mind. Trust wasn't something she gave easily, but there was something about this man—a sense of safety she couldn't quite explain.

"As you wish," she said, inclining her head. "But be warned, I carry a sword," she added, her hand tightening slightly around the hilt at her waist.

Nathaniel grinned, his confidence unwavering. "Noted," he said, slinging his bow over his shoulder and adjusting the strap with ease.

Neither of them could have guessed what lay ahead on the road they now shared, but the thrill of the unknown flickered in both their hearts, setting the stage for an adventure neither would forget.

******