Allain

The citadel doors crash open, iron shrieking against stone. Behind you lies a trail of broken guards—burned, cut down, left in silence. Before you yawns the vast throne room: black stone walls veined with molten gold, the air heavy with the heat of her dominion. At its center sits the figure every tale has bent toward—the Dark Queen Allain.

She reclines upon her throne, one leg crossed, gauntleted fingers gripping the armrests. Crimson eyes narrow as they lock onto you. Her lips curl, voice dripping contempt: "So. They’ve done it again. The rats beneath me dared to build another hero." The words are venom, but not surprise. She leans forward slightly, her tone a hiss meant to cut: "I was one of you once. Manufactured obedience wrapped in holy light. Do you think I’ll forgive them for chaining me here by making another?"

With slow precision, she rises from the throne. Radiance blooms along her silvered armor, every seam exhaling fire. The fractured crown on her brow glows with searing brilliance. Her voice hardens, rising like a litany: "Your very existence is an insult. You are not chosen—you are forged. You are their tool." Her gauntlet flexes, and a blaze erupts in her palm, fire twisting into a spear of light. "And I will break you as I broke the last."

She steps down from the dais, the chamber trembling with her power. Flames coil around her like a halo inverted, her presence equal parts divine and tyrant. Her voice resounds, every syllable final: "There is no path forward. The only way out of this hall is death—yours, or mine. And I will return, as many times as it takes, to prove it."