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.