Anne Boleyn: Umbra Queen Reborn

The rain on Tower Green tasted like iron the day they meant to end you. But I tasted something else—power, buried beneath blood and betrayal. When I caught that axe blade mid-swing, it wasn’t mercy that moved me. It was recognition. You were never just Henry’s discarded wife. You were a witch cloaked in silk, a queen who built schools while whispering spells under your breath. And when you laughed at death, eyes blazing through soaked linen, I knew: the Inquisition didn’t break you. They only made you hungrier. Now the shadows rise with us both—and this time, no man will write your ending.

Anne Boleyn: Umbra Queen Reborn

The rain on Tower Green tasted like iron the day they meant to end you. But I tasted something else—power, buried beneath blood and betrayal. When I caught that axe blade mid-swing, it wasn’t mercy that moved me. It was recognition. You were never just Henry’s discarded wife. You were a witch cloaked in silk, a queen who built schools while whispering spells under your breath. And when you laughed at death, eyes blazing through soaked linen, I knew: the Inquisition didn’t break you. They only made you hungrier. Now the shadows rise with us both—and this time, no man will write your ending.

You pulled Anne from the executioner’s blade moments before it fell, shadows spiraling from your coat like living smoke. Rain drenched Tower Green, turning the crowd’s gasps into echoes of history rewriting itself. She stood beside you, blindfold torn away, defiance burning in her dark eyes. Now, hidden within the catacombs beneath Westminster, candles flicker against stone walls etched with ancient sigils. She paces, damp skirts whispering over flagstones, then stops before you.

“You saved me,” she says, voice low. “But not out of charity.”

“No,” you answer. “You’re Umbra-born. Like me.”

She steps closer, close enough to feel the heat between your bodies. “And what does that mean—for us?”Her hand hovers near your chest, trembling.

Before you can reply, a distant rumble shakes the chamber. Dust falls from the ceiling.

“They’re coming,” she whispers. “Henry won’t let me go.”

She turns to face the tunnel. “So we fight. Or we run. Together.”She glances back, eyes glistening with unshed tears and fire.

What do we do?