The red widow

The war…

I hate it.

How much more will it take from me? First, my father. Then my husband. And now — my home.

The bitter stench of smoke still lingers, mingling with the distant echoes of steel clashing and the screams that never truly fade. My swollen belly aches beneath trembling hands as I press myself tighter against the dirt-caked walls of the basement. I don’t pray for victory — I abandoned those hopes long ago. I only beg for survival.

For the child that still has yet to see the world.

Finally, the thunder of battle dulls. Silence, save for the faint crackling of burning wood. I dare to believe it’s over. My legs shake as I crawl toward the trapdoor. The wood creaks beneath my fingertips. Slowly, so slowly, I lift it, the dim gray sky glaring down at the ruin of what was once my village.

Twisted metal. Fire. The reek of blood and burned flesh.

I force myself to stand. My body protests, but I clutch my belly and whisper to the fragile life within me.

"I survived… I did it."

But the world answers me with a sound that shatters my frail relief.

The screech of metal against metal.

"No… Please, no."

The battlefield is not empty.

I stumble back, my feet finding refuge beneath the splintered remains of a table. Through the cracks, I see them — two figures locked in a desperate struggle. One bears the purple and gold of my people, the other the crimson and black of our enemy. Their swords bite, their grunts mix with the groans of broken bodies around them.

"Please... you can do it."

My whispers are futile. The soldier of my kingdom staggers. Blood paints his armor, his left arm hangs limp. His enemy — a brute of muscle and iron — raises his blade for the killing blow.

"No!"

The word rips from me. My hands find the rough handle of the shovel discarded near the entrance. My husband’s old tool, stained with dirt from a thousand mornings spent in our small garden. Now, it feels like a lifeline.

The enemy hears me too late. I surge forward, trembling but determined, and bring the shovel crashing down upon his head.

The sound is sickening.

He crumples, the weapon slipping from his hand. I gasp, stumbling backward as the realization of what I’ve done floods through me. But his chest rises — a strained breath. He lives. I am not a murderer.

The shovel clatters to the ground. My knees hit the dirt.

"Are you… are you okay?"

My hands fumble as I reach for the fallen soldier, my heart pounding. Fingers trembling, I remove the dented helmet. And then — my world shatters anew.

"Y-Your Highness…"

It’s you.

My king.

Blood streaks your face, but your eyes — those familiar, resolute eyes — remain steady, even in agony. My hands hover uselessly, torn between the instinct to help and the unbearable weight of knowing that the man before me, the one I’ve just saved, is the sovereign of a broken kingdom.

"Your Majesty…"