The desert stretched in every direction, endless and unbroken.
Rose staggered across the crimson dunes, her boots sinking deep into sand that shimmered like powdered rust. Above her, the sky was black, not night-black but void-black, a hollow dome without stars or moon. The air pressed heavy against her skin, hot and dry, yet she shivered as though caught in winter frost.
The sword weighed down her arm. Its faint glow painted the dunes with streaks of pale light, but it did not comfort her. The carvings writhed like veins beneath its surface, pulsing faintly with every beat of her heart.
Behind her, the silhouettes marched. Thousands of them, blurred and featureless, like shadows given form. Their feet left no prints in the sand, yet their chant followed her no matter how far she walked.
Betrayer… betrayer… betrayer.
Her throat was raw, but she screamed anyway. "Stop! Leave me alone!"
The figures did not falter.
She turned and swung the sword, its light cutting across the nearest silhouettes. For a moment, they wavered, their forms tearing like smoke. But when the light dimmed, they were whole again, continuing their endless march.
Rose dropped to her knees, clutching her head. Her mind reeled, exhaustion clawing at every thought. She had fought too long, resisted too much. The curse was wearing her down, inch by inch, breath by breath.
"Why?" she whispered to the desert. "Why me?"
The answer came not from the silhouettes, but from the sand itself.
The dunes shifted.
Grains of crimson slid away, revealing stone beneath. Slowly, a structure rose from the desert floor—an altar of black granite, ancient and cracked. At its center burned a fire that gave no light, only shadow.
Rose stumbled toward it, drawn by a force she could not resist. Each step dragged as though the sand clung to her boots, but still she moved, her heart pounding harder the closer she came.
When she reached the altar, she saw him.
A man knelt before the shadow-flame. His hair was matted, his armor shattered, his body draped in the rags of a warrior long dead. In his hands, he clutched a blade identical to hers, though rusted and blackened with age.
His eyes lifted to meet hers, and Rose froze.
They were her eyes.
"No…" she whispered, stumbling back. "That's not possible."
The man smiled faintly, though there was no joy in it. His voice was dry as the desert wind. "It is always possible. Betrayal has no face but the one we wear."
Rose shook her head. "Who are you?"
The man rose, the sand sliding from his broken armor. "The first. The oath-bearer. The one who forged the cycle."
Her stomach turned to ice. "The Rajput warrior…"
He inclined his head. "Ishvar Singh. I bound the sword with blood. My vengeance, my curse, my hunger. And so it continues."
Rose lifted her blade, though her arms trembled with fear. "Then end it! You started this—end it!"
Singh's laughter was low, bitter, broken. "End it? Foolish girl. I cannot end what I am. I am betrayal. I swore an oath upon dishonor, and the world answered. Do you think such vows can be undone?"
She wanted to deny him, to scream that he was wrong—but deep inside, she felt the truth of his words.
"Why me?" she asked again, her voice cracking.
Singh stepped closer. The shadows from the flame curled around him like serpents. "Because you carry betrayal in your heart. You were abandoned. You were wounded. You swore, even if only in silence, that you would never forgive. That oath is the same as mine. That is why the sword chose you."
Rose's knees buckled. She wanted to argue, to tell him she had endured, that she had survived without hate. But memory rose unbidden—faces that had lied to her, friends who had turned away, the bitter taste of promises broken.
Hadn't she, in her darkest moments, whispered curses against them? Hadn't she dreamed of vengeance?
"No," she whispered, clutching her chest. "That doesn't mean I'm like you."
Singh's smile widened, cruel and knowing. "It means you are already me."
The shadows surged.
The silhouettes that had followed her now closed in, circling the altar. Their chant grew louder, deeper, shaking the very dunes beneath her feet. Betrayer. Betrayer. Betrayer.
Rose swung the sword wildly, desperate to break their hold, but for every shadow she struck, another replaced it. Singh's laughter roared above the din.
"You cannot fight what you are. You will betray, and in betraying, you will kill. That is the oath, girl. That is the cycle."
Rose screamed, raising the sword high. Its carvings flared brighter, searing her palms, but she poured every ounce of her defiance into the light. "Then I'll betray the cycle too!"
For an instant, the chant faltered. The silhouettes wavered, their forms rippling. Even Singh's laughter stuttered.
The light blazed outward, shattering the shadows nearest her, tearing them into smoke. The altar cracked, the shadow-flame sputtering. Rose held on, screaming, her whole body shaking with the effort.
But the sword's hunger surged back. The light twisted, darkening, turning red. Pain shot through her arm, into her chest, down her spine. Her scream became a cry of agony.
The sword was feeding. Not on the silhouettes, not on Singh. On her.
The last thing she saw before darkness claimed her was Singh's face, smiling with triumph.
"Welcome home, betrayer."
Rose awoke on her back, the desert gone. She lay in a chamber of stone, lit by torches that burned with black fire. Chains bound her wrists and ankles, cold and heavy.
The sword rested across her chest, glowing faintly, as if mocking her.
And in the shadows of the chamber, voices whispered—not one, not a thousand, but countless, overlapping, eternal.
The betrayer is crowned.
Rose awoke on her back, the desert gone.
She lay in a chamber of stone, lit by torches that burned with black fire. Chains bound her wrists and ankles, cold and heavy, their iron biting deep into her skin. The stone beneath her was slick, not with water but with some dark residue that smelled of ash and blood.
The sword rested across her chest, glowing faintly, as if mocking her. The light didn't soothe—each pulse seemed to draw the air from her lungs, as though it was breathing in what she exhaled.
And in the shadows of the chamber, voices whispered—not one, not a thousand, but countless, overlapping, eternal.
The betrayer is crowned… the betrayer is crowned…
Rose struggled, yanking at the chains until the skin at her wrists burned raw. "I'm not your betrayer!" she shouted into the darkness.
The voices did not falter. Crowned. Bound. Named.
"Stop it!" She slammed her head back against the stone. "Stop calling me that!"
Her cry echoed through the chamber—and something stirred.
A shape emerged from the black fire. It wasn't Singh this time, but another figure, taller, thinner, draped in ceremonial robes. His face was concealed behind a bronze mask shaped like a jackal, its eyes empty pits.
He moved with slow, deliberate steps, each footfall echoing like a drumbeat. When he spoke, his voice was neither male nor female, but layered with both, and threaded with something inhuman.
"The crown fits the head that wears it," the figure intoned.
Rose snarled. "I didn't ask for this! I didn't swear anything!"
"You didn't need to," the figure replied. "The wound in your heart spoke louder than words. The sword heard. It always hears."
The chains rattled as she tried to sit up. "Then free me. If the sword chose me, then let me decide my own fate."
The jackal-headed figure tilted its mask. "Choice? No bearer has ever had choice. Not Singh. Not the ones after him. Not you. The crown is the oath made flesh."
Rose clenched her fists until her nails cut her palms. "Then why show me this? Why drag me here if I'm nothing but another pawn?"
The figure paused, and when it spoke again, its tone shifted—quieter, almost reverent. "Because the crown resists. It bends, but does not yet break. That has never happened before."
The shadows rippled, and the silhouettes appeared again—thousands of them, circling the chamber. But now they were not faceless. Each flickered with features: men, women, warriors, thieves, kings, mothers. All held swords, all bore scars.
One stepped forward. A woman with hollow eyes and a scar across her throat. She reached for Rose with trembling hands.
"I killed my son," the shadow whispered. "The sword made me. It promised me he would live if I betrayed him. But he died screaming."
Another stepped forward. A young man, armor burned black. "I betrayed my kingdom. The sword promised me survival. It left me alone on a field of corpses."
Then another. An old man, his back bent, eyes milky. "I betrayed my faith. The sword promised me truth. All I saw was lies."
The shadows pressed closer, their voices overlapping, a cacophony of confession and damnation. Rose's breath came in short gasps.
"Stop it," she whispered.
They pressed closer still, their hands reaching, their faces twisted with grief and rage.
"I said stop it!"
The sword flared against her chest, the chains rattling violently. The shadows recoiled, their forms rippling like smoke caught in wind. For a moment, silence returned—then the jackal figure stepped closer.
"You see now, bearer," it said. "You are not alone. You are one of many. Each swore, each fell, each wore the crown."
Rose spat onto the stone. "Then I'll break it."
The figure tilted its head again, and though the mask did not change, she felt it smile. "So said Singh. So said all who came after. Do you know what happened to them?"
The silhouettes leaned in as one, their voices whispering the answer.
They betrayed. They bled. They died.
Rose shook her head furiously, her hair clinging to her sweat-slick skin. "No. I won't! I'd rather die than be part of this cycle."
The jackal figure leaned close enough that the heat of the black fire washed over her face. "Then die you shall. But even death is no escape. The crown will pass. The oath will endure. You will not end it by dying. You will only feed it."
The words carved into her like blades. She wanted to scream, to fight, but despair coiled in her chest, heavy and suffocating. Was there truly no way out?
Her gaze dropped to the sword. Its carvings pulsed slowly, like veins pumping dark blood. And in its glow, for the first time, she saw not just power, but something else—fear.
The sword feared her.
Her breath hitched. "You're wrong," she whispered.
The jackal figure paused. "What?"
Rose's lips curled into a trembling smile. "You think the sword rules me. But I've seen it. I've felt it. It's afraid. It needs me. Without me, it's nothing."
The chamber trembled. The torches flared higher. The silhouettes shrieked as though the very suggestion burned them.
The jackal figure drew back, the mask tilting sharply. "Blasphemy."
Rose pushed against the chains until the iron cut her skin. "If it needs me… then maybe I can unmake it. Maybe betrayal doesn't have to be forever."
The whispers erupted into screams. The silhouettes surged, slamming against invisible walls, their forms warping with rage.
The jackal figure raised its hands, the black fire roaring higher. "Enough! You are crown, nothing more!"
But Rose only smiled, blood dripping from her wrists where the chains tore her flesh. "We'll see."
The chamber quaked violently, dust falling from the ceiling, stone cracking beneath her. The sword on her chest glowed red-hot, searing her skin, but she did not let go. She clutched the hilt with both hands, yanking it upright despite the chains.
The silhouettes screamed. The jackal figure staggered back, the mask cracking down the center.
Rose screamed with them, her voice cutting through the din. "I am not your betrayer!"
And the sword—just for an instant—hesitated.
The glow faltered. The whispers stuttered. The silhouettes froze.
For one heartbeat, the cycle trembled.
Then the chains snapped tight, dragging her back to the stone. The sword wrenched itself from her hands, pinning itself across her chest once more. The jackal figure steadied, the mask sealing itself whole again.
"You cannot fight eternity," it hissed. "And eternity cannot fight you forever. You will yield. You will break. And when you do, the crown will shine brighter than ever."
The black fire flared, consuming the chamber. Rose screamed as shadows engulfed her, her defiance smothered in darkness.
When she awoke again, she was no longer chained.
She stood in a throne room made of bone and ash, a jagged crown of iron resting on her head.
And before her knelt the silhouettes, thousands strong, their voices united in one deafening chant:
All hail the betrayer queen.