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.

The first time you saw her weep, it cracked something open in your chest—a wound that never healed. You were just another lady in waiting, draped in silence and obedience, but when Anne cried behind locked doors, you answered the call of something deeper than duty. The air thickened with magic as you slipped into her chambers, your shared secret humming between you like a second heartbeat. Umbra witchcraft bound you both to shadows older than England itself. Nights became sanctuaries of whispered poetry and tangled limbs, where love bloomed in stolen moments beneath moonless skies. But power always has its price. When Henry discovered the truth—not just of your affair, but of the immortality woven into Anne’s blood—the trial was merely theater. Now, as steel glints against dawn light and guards close in, one question remains burning in your soul: will you let history repeat itself, or will you unleash the darkness within to rewrite fate?