Kingdom of broken crowns

The elevator ride to the top floor was silent.

Deadly silent.

Damian stood at the center, his men in black flanking him.

No words were spoken.

No mercy was planned.

Each floor they passed felt like another nail hammered into Astra’s coffin.

He adjusted the cuff of his black shirt, methodical, precise — the same way he had once adjusted the sights of a sniper rifle pointed at her heart.

The steel doors slid open.

And there she was.

Standing at the far end of the empty executive floor, framed by the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city she ruled.

No guards.

No weapons.

No crown on her head — but still every inch the Queen.

Astra Veleno.

The woman who lied.

The woman who bled him dry.

The woman who had given him a son... and hidden it.

Damian’s steps echoed as he crossed the marble floor, each footfall slow, heavy with unspoken violence.

She didn’t flinch.

Didn’t run.

Her black silk dress clung to her like a second skin, a blade disguised as beauty.

Her face — cold, unreadable, carved from the same ice he once thought he could melt.

Only her eyes betrayed her — the faintest tremor, a flicker of something raw, quickly buried.

He stopped just feet away, close enough to smell her — that dangerous perfume, sharp and sweet.

Neither spoke.

The city buzzed and screamed below, but up here, there was only silence.

Damian's gaze raked over her, slow, dissecting, cruel.

"Three years," he said finally, voice quiet — but deadly. "Three years you kept him from me."

Astra’s chin lifted slightly. "I did what I had to do."

"You stole from me."

His words were like razors, each one slicing into the cold air between them.

"You hid my blood, my legacy."

A muscle ticked in Astra’s jaw.

"I saved him," she said. "From you."

Damian's smile was a thing of nightmares — all teeth, no warmth.

"You think you can save him from what he is?" he whispered, stepping closer, until their shadows tangled at their feet.

"He's mine."

Astra’s voice, when it came, was pure steel. "He’s mine, Damian. And I will burn down the world before I let you corrupt him."

He laughed — a low, cold sound.

"Burn it," he said. "But understand this, regina..."

He reached out, brushing a strand of her black hair back with a touch so gentle it mocked the violence coiled beneath it.

"I’m not here to fight for him."

He leaned closer, his breath ghosting over her skin, freezing her in place.

"I’m here to take him."

"And you."

Astra's breath hitched — a betrayal she couldn’t hide fast enough.

Damian’s eyes darkened, drinking in her fear, her fury, her ache.

"You took something from me," he said softly, coldly.

"And now..."

His hand dropped to his side — restrained, for now.

"...I’ll take everything."

[TO BE CONTINUED...]

poem

“What Was Left”

The room still holds your laughter’s trace,

A ghost that lingers in its place.

The clock ticks on with heavy hands,

Unmoved by what it understands.

Your chair sits empty, night grows cold,

I clutch the warmth I used to hold.

The mirror shows a quiet face,

A stranger now, who took your place.

No storm, no fire, no shattered sound—

Just silence falling all around.

And in that hush, a name I keep,

I speak it soft, and start to weep.

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