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Return of the Vengeful Queen

Return of the Vengeful Queen

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Fantasy

Introduction
In her past life, Eleanor met a tragic end, deceived by wolves in sheep's clothing. Given a second chance, she's hell-bent on tearing apart those scumbags, protecting her loved ones, and reclaiming her happiness! But the moment she's reborn, she finds herself drowning in love. Eight doting older brothers compete to spoil her, four younger brothers vie to shield her, and her devoted crown prince husband treasures her like the rarest jewel, cradling her in the palm of his hand. With life this sweet, she won’t let those backstabbers ruin it! Eleanor dismantles scheming vipers with a smile, crushes despicable men underfoot, and meticulously settles scores with every last one who wronged her. Little does she know—her prince and brothers are already moving in the shadows, exacting vengeance on her behalf...
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Chapter

"Your... Your Majesty!"

"Oh no! Your Majesty! Prince Henry can’t hold on any longer!"

The Kingdom of Eldenmere was deep in the grip of autumn. In Kingswell, at midnight, flames lit up the dark sky. The palace gates were sealed shut. Screams echoed from every direction. Corpses lay strewn across the battlefield, and blood flowed like a river.

On the golden Southwood couch, King Alaric closed his eyes, masking the emotion behind them.

He looked no older than thirty, once in his prime—but now, he was a dying man.

His once-celebrated face, praised across the capital, was now ruined. Jagged, burn-scarred flesh marred the entire right side, twisted and raw. Black blotches from poison stained his left cheek.

This was the patron saint of the imperial capital—once commanding, once revered. Now, reduced to ruin.

Bang!

The hall doors burst open.

A woman in white stepped in—graceful, composed.

Alaric opened his eyes, gaze softening with gratitude.

"Eleanor..." he murmured.

She was his wife. The most beautiful woman in Eldenmere Country.

"You—Your Grace!" gasped the old eunuch Edwin, panicked. "Why haven’t you fled? Prince Henry is falling! Prince Malcolm must already be inside!"

Before he could say another word, violent coughing rattled the chamber.

"Majesty!" Edwin dropped to his knees, rushing to Alaric’s side, pressing a hand to his chest to ease his breathing.

But Eleanor stood calm, untouched by the chaos. Her expression never changed. She took the bowl of soup from the handmaid, Mira, and stepped forward slowly, every movement deliberate.

She sat by the couch, staring at her dying husband.

"We’ve been married ten years," she said, voice like cold steel. "A miserable bond. I came only to see you off. After this—never again."

She dipped the spoon into the soup and lifted it to his lips without emotion.

"Your Grace..." Edwin whispered in disbelief. "What are you doing?"

"Take him out," Eleanor ordered.

At her command, palace servants surged forward. They clamped hands over Edwin’s mouth and dragged him, thrashing, out of the hall.

On the couch, Alaric’s body trembled. He struck the spoon from Eleanor’s hand. His eyes, bloodshot and glistening, locked onto hers.

"Eleanor!" he choked. "What did I ever do to deserve this? Why do you hate me so much?"

No one else could wound him like she could.

"I made you my empress," he growled. "I loved you like no other. I treated you as my treasure. What have I done that deserves such betrayal?"

He grabbed her wrist, voice cracking.

"If you want to be my only queen, I’ll dismiss the harem. If you want the Order of the Thorn gone, I’ll disband it myself!"

"I gave you everything—power, loyalty, love! What more do you want? Do you want my heart, torn from my chest, just to look at me again?"

Eleanor’s composure broke. Her breath hitched. Her hand shook as she pulled free from his grasp and stepped back.

"You think I don’t know?" she cried. "Your so-called love was a golden cage! You clipped my wings and called it affection!"

"You destroyed my life, Alaric! You plotted and schemed, crushed my family, left no one standing—and now you want to play the martyr?"

Her voice rose to a bitter scream.

"You want me to be satisfied? Fine! Then die! If you die—I’ll be free! If you die—I’ll finally be satisfied! Do you have the courage? Do you even dare to die?"

She spun around, marched to the weapon shelf, and pulled down the King’s blade.

She turned, sword pointed directly at him, eyes blazing.

"Ten years," she spat. "Ten years of humiliation—for this moment! With your death, I take back my name, my life. I’ll never be your empress again."

She yanked the golden royal diadem from her head.

With a cry, she hurled it at him.

The crown struck his scarred face, carving fresh lines into ruined skin.

The diadem slipped down, landing in his lap.

Alaric didn’t move.

Didn’t even flinch.

He stared down at the crown—his symbol, now a weapon—then reached for it with a trembling hand.

His fingers closed around it, and he held it to his chest like a dying prayer.

But no prayer would save him now.