The day of the trial arrived.
The morning sun cast white light through the only window that was in cell.
Allen lay on the floor, turned toward the wall, one arm over his eyes like he was sleeping in a quiet bedroom instead of a cell inches from execution.
But I knew better.
He wasn't asleep.
Not even close.
His breathing was too steady, too deliberate, he didn't want to look at me.
Didn't want to watch the guards haul me away.
Funny. After all his bragging and laughter, the cracks were showing.
Fear was still fear, even if you learned how to dress it up.
For a moment I just watched him. This man who laughed at royalty, mocked death, and claimed to welcome chaos… hiding behind a lazy pose.
"So this is it?" I whispered to no one. "This is how it ends?"
My isekai journey.
The grand adventure.
The ridiculous dream every bored adult secretly wants.
And I was about to die before it ever began.
The guards were already coming down the steps, their boots scrape the stone steps.
Could I have done anything differently?
The thought flickered in my mind, faint and useless.
Maybe there was something, maybe there wasn't.
But none of it mattered now.
The story had already written my death.
Arthur's death.
And I was just borrowing his name, his body, his fate.
I exhaled,
"There's no point thinking about it now."
Chains clinked outside the bars.
Keys rattled.
The metal groaned.
This was the moment the novel never mentioned, the chapters beyond the thirty.
This was where Arthur's existence ended—and where mine would follow.
The lock turned.
The gate opened.
And fate had won.
.....
— Third Person POV —
The Queen Chambers,
King Charles didn't waste time with pleasantries.
He stepped into the private chamber, the heavy doors closing behind him, and the queen stood near the window with her hands folded, pretending to look unsettled. She wasn't. He knew her well enough to see the act.
"Spare me the trembling," he said, waving his hand. "I'm not here to comfort you."
She lowered her eyes like a dutiful wife, but the hint of a smirk tugged at her lips.
Charles moved closer, voice low but clear. "I don't care who it was. I don't care what he touched. I don't even care if he saw you naked. None of that matters to me."
The queen lifted her head slightly, surprise for a moment. "Then the trial… why hold it at all?"
He studied her, amused she even asked.
"It's simple," he said. "One man dared to step out of line. One man thought he could speak, breathe, or blink without my permission. If I let that pass, another will follow. And another. And then this kingdom becomes a nest of idiots who think they can challenge the crown."
He walked past her, touching the edge of a carved table, his finger tracing absent patterns.
She remained still, watching him.
"I don't need loyalty," he added. "I need fear. Real fear. The kind that stops a man from even imagining disobedience."
The queen shifted. "So the boy… Arthur… you'll kill him over nothing?"
Charles shrugged. "He's useful as an example, nothing more."
"And if other men in the palace fancy me?" she asked softly.
He then let out a small laugh, "Let them. A man's thoughts can't touch my throne, but a man's courage… that's the problem. I can't have them thinking they can do whatever they want."
He turned fully toward her, expression cold and almost bored.
"This judgement is not about you, and it's not about him. It's about the palace remembering its place."
The queen bowed her head. "As you wish."
"As I always wish," he corrected. "The moment the court gathers, the kingdom will see exactly what happens when someone forgets who wears the crown."
He headed for the door, then paused just before stepping out.
"You can try all you want," he said. "But our time together has long gone."
"I have moved past you."
SHUT!
He shut the door closed, leaving the queen alone to tremble at the fact that her carefully planned effort was all for nothing.
She made Arthur think she loved him.
She made Arthur think about her daily.
Not him.
Not the soul from Earth.
But the real Arthur.
The boy who grew up in this palace.
And all for what?
Just so the king could remind her he stopped caring years ago.
SMACK!
CRACK!
Her hand shot out, grabbing the nearest vase and slamming it into the wall. Porcelain exploded across the floor in white shards.
She then kicked over the small table by her bedside. The legs snapped, wood splintering like dry bones.
Another vase.
Thrown.
Destroyed.
She swept her arm across her vanity, sending perfumes, combs, powders flying. The bottles shattered on impact. The sweet smell of rosewater filled the air, mixing with the sharp sting of glass.
She ripped down the curtains next, the fabric tearing under her nails as if it had personally offended her. Sunlight burst into the room in one harsh wave, revealing the chaos she had created.
Her breathing turned jagged, animal like.
"Moved past me…" she muttered, voice cracking.
She grabbed a framed portrait of the royal family off the wall. Stared at it for half a second. Then slammed it face-first onto the ground. The glass broke under her heel as she stomped on it again and again, grinding the king's painted face into dust.
A lamp went next.
Then a chair.
Then a stack of books she never read.
This wasn't rage, she was humiliated.
The kind of humiliation that rots a person from the inside out.
The kind that twists every thought into something ugly.
She kept going until the room looked like a warzone. Until her chest burned, until her arms shook, until there was nothing left within reach to destroy.
And even then she wasn't done. She stood there, barefoot among broken glass and torn silk, her hair wild and her eyes empty.
A queen reduced to ruin.
Not because someone touched her.
But because someone didn't care that she was touchable.