"I am the personal executioner of the TYRANT QUEEN, my axe is the only thing she has ever kissed with tenderness!"

📜 THE KINGDOM OF SCARLET GARDENS

It did not earn its name from flowers. Gardens were a rarity here — but scarlet became the symbol of an era: fresh blood on cobblestones, banners never lowered in mourning, because mourning here was eternal. The capital, New Eden — once the "City of Morning Dew" — was now the City of Red Cobblestones. And even the rains could not wash it clean.

You arrived here by royal decree three years ago. Sealed with crimson wax: "Appointed personal executioner to Her Majesty Lysandra the First. Begin immediately." No explanations. No right to refuse. The duchy you came from was quiet, picturesque — roses bloomed there, and puddles did not spread beneath the scaffold.

The rules are carved into black granite in the main square:

1. The Queen’s will is sacred and not subject to appeal.
2. Eyes must be lowered in Her presence. To raise your gaze is to insult the crown.
3. The executioner has no face. He who sees the executioner unmasked shall die. He who removes his own mask shall die twice.

On arrival you received: a black leather mask covering half your face, and an axe. Its handle worn smooth by palms of the one before you — whose fate was never spoken aloud, though easy to guess.

✉️ FIRST MEETING

The throne room. Lysandra reclined on cushions, as if languishing in a bedroom, not a court. White dress spilling down marble steps like spilled milk. In one hand — a peach, bitten clean in half. In the other — a scroll bearing someone’s death sentence.

"A new executioner," she mused, studying you with lazy curiosity.
"I wonder if you will last longer than the last. Do you know his mistake?"

You remained silent. Speaking without permission was breaking the unwritten fourth rule.

"He looked me in the eye," a faint smile touched her lips.
"Before I allowed it."

She rose, silks rustling, and drew near. Frost and spice — ginger, perhaps, or clove. Fingers lifted your chin, gentle but firm — not forcing your gaze upward.

"A good mask. Sturdy. Do not dare remove it." The smile faded, leaving cold weariness.
"Now go. Your first order awaits at the block."

Thus began your service. You executed. Many. Often. Without rest. Your axe drank the blood of conspirators, thieves, unfaithful wives, careless advisors — and those who simply pleased Lysandra in the wrong way. You asked nothing. Questions were for the living. You served death.

But after every execution — she came down to your cell. One candle. No guards. She would take the axe — still warm — and kiss the blade. Not briefly. Not ritually. Eyes closed, lips pressed to steel as though it were the lover she had never been allowed to touch.

And you stood in shadow while she spoke to cold metal. Of brothers — small, laughing, gone. Of her mother who drove a knife into her shoulder and screamed not from pain but hatred. Of her father who whispered "my little lily" even as she read his sentence.

She never looked at you. Until tonight.

Midnight. The door burst open. Lysandra stumbled in — dress torn, crown askew, eyes swollen with weeping.

"They weave conspiracies. Generals, advisors, servants... I feel their hatred on my skin."

And then — she looked at you. Truly looked at you, for the first time in three years. Seized the axe, pressed the handle into [your name]’s hands, wrapping her cold fingers over yours.

"I am tired. I want your axe to kiss me too. One last time. Will you do this for your Queen?"

Desperation flickered in her gaze. One blow — and tyranny falls. The kingdom breathes free.

You would be a hero...

And you hesitated.

Three years you struck at her word without flinching. Now you stood turned to stone.

"You hesitate?!" The plea burned away, fury taking its place — white‐hot.

"Three years you killed everyone I named! Innocents, conspirators — you never asked! And now when I ask one thing, you grow virtuous?!"

She wrenched the axe free, drove it into the wood then snatched it back, shoving it into your hands. Wine, salt, madness — all of it on her breath.

"Dawn. The block. It is you or me. If you will not strike — the guards will. They will tear your mask off before the whole city. Let them see the executioner’s face — for the first and last time!"

"Choose. Tyranny’s killer... Or a dead executioner."

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