1712, Tower of The Damned, Kestramore City

"Do not touch me! I am the mother of the future queen!" Dinah Finley shouted as she attempted to break free from the hold of the prison guards but to no avail. "When my daughter becomes queen, all of you will lose your heads!"

The guards let out a series of chuckles. "The only one losing her head here is you!"

Marguerite quietly watched the entire fiasco unfold, her teeth anxiously biting into her lower lip. Her fingers felt awfully cold, and her stomach slowly churned and rumbled. How could she not? As soon as Dinah Finley lost her head, it would be her turn next.

The sun rose up in the sky as it always did, and it will continue doing so for the rest of eternity. But for Marguerite, this was the last time she would bathe in the sunlight, the last time she would ever witness the sunrise. There she stood, barefoot on top of the wooden scaffold, her lustrous golden locks tucked underneath a plain white bonnet.

"She looks like a monster!" a little girl cried out as she tugged onto her mother's skirts. "Mama, I'm scared!"

All that could be seen of Marguerite was her horribly torn and bleeding face, and while she was once considered a classic, exemplary beauty, now none of that remained. Marguerite's fingers subconsciously crept to her face, expecting to feel her soft, supple skin, but instead, her fingers brushed against wounds and scars, scabbing and bleeding.

"Any last words?" she heard the executioner say to Dinah Finley. Marguerite finally mustered the courage to look, and there she saw the silhouette of the man who would soon take her life. He was tall and cloaked in black, and a large metal axe was nestled in between his hands. A piece of burgundy cloth covered the lower half of his face, and only his pitch-black eyes could be seen.

"You cannot kill me!" Dinah screeched. "I am innocent! I have done nothing wrong!"

As the old woman begged and pleaded for her life, Marguerite noticed something leaking from between the wooden planks where Dinah stood. The poor woman had wet herself. Marguerite instinctively covered her nose and shied away as any noble lady would, but a single sentence from the executioner would immediately make her turn her head around.

"Hold her down," he said, and the prison guards obediently grabbed the old woman's pudgy arms and forced her to lay her head upon the chopping block. Dinah screamed at the top of her lungs, she kicked and spat, but ultimately, she was no match for them.

Dinah screamed one final time, and the sound of the axe coming down on her neck followed soon after. Then, there was silence. The old woman's head had tumbled down the scaffold and onto the dirt, so one of the prison guards hastily ran down the steps and retrieved the head, tossing it into a woven basket with all the other heads.

"Marguerite le Prince," the executioner called out. It was now her turn. For a moment, she felt as if time had stopped, as if it were frozen. The cold morning wind felt vivid, foreign even, and the early sunlight that entered her eyes did not feel real. She made her way to the executioner, her heart beating erratically in her ears, drowning out the jeers and taunts.

As she stood at the very centre of the scaffold, the chopping block just a few feet in front of her, Marguerite began to wonder-- how did I get here? What if my life had unfolded differently?

∆

"Oh, husband, ten dresses are not enough! Marguerite shall participate in The Choosing Ceremony, not a simple countryside season! She shall need twenty, no, thirty, at the very least," Alberta le Prince nagged to her husband, the Count.

"Is that so?" the middle-aged man chuckled as he stroked his thin moustache. "If that is the case, then here are a hundred and fifty gold coins. Head to the modiste and pick out everything your heart desires. If it is not enough, then your papa will be happy to provide for more."

"Thank you, papa!" Marguerite said joyfully as she embraced her father. "Well then, I shall go to town with Nathaniel this afternoon." There, she would buy whatever she wanted-- jewellery, silk dresses, beaded shoes, diamond necklaces-- and when it came time to pay, she did not bat a single eyelid.

At the Choosing Ceremony, the Prince would fall hopelessly in love with her at first sight, and he was so smitten with her that he ordered for all the remaining ladies to be sent home right away.

"Lady le Prince, you truly are the most beautiful creature that I had ever laid my eyes on. Your exquisite beauty is breathtaking, and those icy blue eyes of yours haunt me in my sleep. My lady, will you marry me?" the Prince would say as he bent down on one knee.

Marguerite would bashfully giggle as her cheeks blushed bright red, and she would tearfully nod as she whispered under her breath, "Yes."

Overjoyed, the Prince would tenderly kiss Marguerite's hand, and he pulled her into a warm, loving embrace, as if he was unwilling to let her go. He rested his hands against the sides of Marguerite's face, and pressed a gentle kiss on her forehead.

"You are my one and true love, Marguerite. You are the mother of my children, the queen of my kingdom. We will be inseparable, and my heart beats in unison with yours."

The wedding would take place the very next day, and the impoverished Catarina de Fontaine would show up while wearing rags and faux jewellery, scowling jealously at Marguerite for robbing her of her opportunity to finally become rich. Disgusted by her flagrant behaviour, the Queen ordered for her to be kicked out of the ceremony.

That day, Marguerite would have worn a gown made from the finest of silks, a crown of pearls harvested in the deep blue sea, and a bouquet of white bulbs of ranunculus, which symbolised charm and prosperity-- the life that Marguerite shall very soon lead.

The Prince's vows would have been sweet and heartfelt, and anyone listening would know how deeply he loved and cherished his bride. It would have been the wedding of the century, and their love story would soon be recorded in fairytales and poems, and soon, the whole world shall know how beloved and esteemed Marguerite of House le Prince was.

They would have had beautiful children with golden curls and sapphire eyes, and the glorious Palace of Aethiel would be their playground. She would have named her son Henri, a name befitting a future king. Prince Henri de Lavilliers. Oh, how Marguerite loved the way it sounded.

But there was nothing that Marguerite loved more than this particular sentence, 'Her Royal Majesty, Queen Marguerite of Ravaeryn'. If she were lucky, then the King would not live for very long, and her darling prince would rise to the throne, bringing her with him.

As Queen, she would have the power to do whatever she wished, and certainly, she would rearrange the kingdom as she saw fit. Marguerite would have taken away all the titles of House de Fontaine and seized their wealth, allowing House le Prince to monopolise the trades once more. Desperate and destitute, Catarina de Fontaine would wander the streets with nothing but the clothes on her back, and sooner or later, she soon succumbed to the elements.

While Catarina's life came to a tragic, premature ending, Marguerite would live a long, happy life with those she valued most. She would be revered, worshipped even, as the most benevolent and beautiful queen to ever grace Ravaerinnian soil. When her inevitable demise came, the entire kingdom would mourn her death for decades, and there will never be a point in time where her name was not constantly uttered, and she, Marguerite le Prince, would forever be beloved and remembered.

Of course, all of that was nothing but Marguerite's wishful daydreams. Her mother and father were dead, their corpses reduced to nothing but dust, and what remained of her brother Nathaniel had been left in the streets for the dogs to feed on. The le Prince mansion had been torn down, and all the stores and rentals that they owned were seized.

She was all that remained, the final remnant of an extinct clan whose name shall soon be lost to time. Her name, her likeness, shall soon disappear. No one would pray for her soul, nor would anyone grieve.

"Any last words?" she heard the executioner say. There, before her, was the chopping block. Dinah Finley's blood, red and warm, was splattered all over the brown surface, dripping down the corners of the block. Marguerite could almost see her reflection, her bloodshot eyes, her trembling lips.

Would she speak? Could she somehow turn fate around? The curious, prying eyes of the onlookers were set on her, and no words escaped their lips. They were all ears, ready for whatever Marguerite had to say. Though she could have delivered a fiery, controversial speech to taint the names of the royal family and House de Fontaine, she did not.

Marguerite knew, not even her glib tongue could save her now. There was no more resentment in her heart, only pain. The desire to be loved, to have someone to pray for her.

"I know that in the eyes of you all, I am nothing but a villain. A bloodthirsty vixen, power-crazed and mad. And at some point, I was. I deserve to burn in Hell for the atrocities I have committed, and as soon as my head rolls down the scaffold, I will be. Though I am undeserving and lowly, I beg you all to pray for my soul, however maligned and filthy I may be. I beg for forgiveness from God, and from you all."

She had expected a barrage of booing and taunts, but they never came. Instead, she heard the soft murmuring of various different prayers. Marguerite felt tears, hot and wet, form in the corners of her eyes.

Resigned and content, she knelt before the chopping block. Her white palms gripped onto each side of the block tightly, and she looked into her reflection one final time. Her lips were no longer trembling, and her gaze was calm.

She gazed above. The skies were a pristine blue, without a single grey cloud in sight. It was like a glimpse of heaven, in all its golden glory. Then, she laid her head on the block.

The footsteps of the executioner trailed behind her, and she could hear his leather gloves brush against the wooden handle of the bloodstained axe. As he raised the axe, the murmuring of prayers grew louder. On the back of her neck, Marguerite could feel Dinah Finley's blood trickling down from the blade of the axe, almost as if it were a morbid warming of what was to come.

Marguerite clenched her eyes shut as the axe came down.