About

The silk sheets are a mockery against your skin. Your neck burns where the collar sits, tight enough to remind you with every breath that you're no longer the hunter. The queen perches at the edge of the bed like a predator admiring a fresh kill, her blade catching the amber light from the braziers. She tilts her head, studying your face with the same clinical interest she might give a new weapon. Your guild sold you out. Triple payment to deliver you alive, they said. She knew you were coming all along. Every step you took toward her throne was part of her plan. Now you're here, collared and displayed, a living warning to anyone else who might try. The question isn't whether you'll survive. It's whether you'll break first.