The snow outside fell in a slow, silent dance—each flake a whisper of the past that refused to stay buried. The wind howled across the frozen grounds of Ravenscourt Manor, nestled deep within the icy pines of British Columbia, Canada. Few knew the estate even existed. Fewer still knew who lived there.
Inside the manor, the air was thick with the scent of old books, burning cedarwood, and secrets. Crystals shimmered under the pale chandelier light, casting fractured reflections across the polished black marble floors. At the far end of the hall sat a woman on a high-backed throne carved from obsidian and violet velvet.
Franziska Ravenhart.
Her presence was like steel wrapped in silk. Clad in a corset studded with sapphires and black diamonds, she looked every inch the monarch the world never knew it had. A glimmering crown rested atop her head—not a symbol of royalty by birth, but of power earned, conquered, and feared.
She wasn't born a queen.
She was made into one.
"Report," she commanded, her voice calm but edged with authority.
A young man stepped forward—Lucas, her most trusted strategist. His coat was soaked from the snow, but his expression was unwavering.
"There's movement in Montreal," he said, bowing slightly. "The Order of Ares has resurfaced. They're searching for the Cipher Scrolls—the ones sealed by your mother."
Franziska's dark eyes narrowed. "Then the war has truly begun."
She rose, and the room seemed to hold its breath. At twenty-eight, Franziska had already witnessed the assassination of her parents, the betrayal of her council, and the burning of her family archives. From the ashes of loss, she had built an empire of influence—part shadow syndicate, part diplomatic force. To the outside world, she was a reclusive tycoon with eccentric tastes.
But to those who mattered, she was Queen Card—the ruling voice of an underground order that spanned continents and centuries.
As she walked down the steps of her throne, the hem of her satin cloak trailed behind her like spilled ink.
"We move at dawn," she said. "If the Order wants the past, then we'll give them a future they won't survive."
Lucas hesitated. "And what of Prince Vasiliev? He's requested a private audience."
Franziska paused. Her lips curled slightly—not in amusement, but in calculation. "Let him wait. Kings play checkers. Queens play chess."
And with that, she stepped into the corridor of stained glass and shadows, the palace echoing with the sound of her boots. Outside, the storm gathered.
Inside, a queen prepared for war.