TMC Vol 1 Act 1.1

ACT 1

 

Six years ago, when I was just fourteen, I’d like to share with you what happened.

 

I was a fresh recruit, newly arrived at the royal palace. I was a boy with unruly curls, dressed in a loose robe of colorful patchwork, and clumsily applied makeup. In short, I was a naive child, not knowing who was who, or even what was where. I had, in fact, first seen the esteemed portrait of His Majesty, King Tristan V, on the hallway walls of the palace. Looking back now, I can hardly believe I managed to survive that time.

 

As is common throughout Winsland, there were two types of people in the palace: those with titles and those without, the nobles and the commoners. I fell into the latter category.

 

The nobles took care of all important affairs — managing the royal family’s chambers, assessing the quality of food and wine, and training the attendants and maids. I had no interest in joining such an elite few. I thought it was wiser to be accepted by the many, not the few, to gain favor with the hundreds of workers who toiled tirelessly in the unnoticed corners of the palace.

 

For the first few days, I was a stray seed, unwelcome even among the kitchen mats. Luckily, I was quick-witted enough to learn how to win people’s goodwill.

 

I began by subtly joining the workers whenever they were chatting while doing laundry or cleaning. Think about it — a cute-looking child with a bright smile, suddenly appearing and helping out; who wouldn’t be charmed?

 

One maid grew so fond of me that she would always hand me a candy whenever she saw me. But, she insisted I eat it right in front of her, making it quite an ordeal. The gooseberry-flavored candy, generously infused with goose fat, was a peculiar treat only she could create.

 

Thus, I fully embraced my role as the youngest, using my age to spark everyone’s protective instincts and happily basking in my position as their cherished little one.

 

The workers were a fountain of information. Within barely a week, I had learned all the rumors circulating within the palace.

 

At that time, the entire nation was engrossed in a singular topic: the queen awaiting her execution. Catherine Blythe, a woman who stood tall before the court, boldly professing her innocence despite an array of charges — treason, adultery, black magic, attempted murder — worn like an array of grand adornments. It’s not unusual for nobles to be embroiled in conspiracies and fall from grace, but for the queen of an entire nation? That was rare indeed.

 

I still remember it. Catherine’s trial could well have been called a national spectacle. Nobles and commoners alike stood vigil outside the courthouse, awaiting the judgment. At last, a man reading the judge’s lips through a window signaled ‘guilty’ by waving a red handkerchief, and the majority of the crowd erupted in cheers. Not only had they gotten the verdict they’d anticipated, but they now had yet another spectacle to look forward to.

 

Shall I share an interesting fact? The time to question a defendant’s guilt is not when the council is evenly divided in its ruling. Rather, it’s when the verdict swings swiftly and cleanly to one side.

 

Catherine had many enemies. From the moment she held power, her life was never easy. She faced a formidable rival: the queen before her, Monil of Pembroke, the mother of Princess Verona.

 

Monil was a woman of quiet, upright character. Born into a duchy, she had been raised among royals and trained rigorously from a young age to assume the role of queen. A more fitting queen was unimaginable. Welcoming a homegrown bride rather than a foreign princess was a point of pride, showcasing Winsland’s formidable strength.

 

Tristan V and Monil of Pembroke were wed amidst the blessings of the entire nation. People said that when they walked together, it was like watching a pair of swans glide gracefully. Everyone expected them to grow old together.

 

But Monil’s fragile health led to her early death. Then, almost as if she had been waiting, the fiery and intense Catherine Blythe took her place. The public, of course, disapproved of the contrast between the two women.

 

People tend to see this tale as a familiar script: a king, lost in sorrow after his good wife’s death, falls prey to a cunning woman, who slithers in like a serpent during his moment of weakness. Trite as it may sound, it was still a thrilling story. People love to polarize everything.

 

Catherine had many names. Most called her ‘the Mad Queen’ — she was, after all, known as the most insane queen of all time. Occasionally, she was called ‘the She-Wolf,’ a title of praise. People who lived as passionately as she did often had as many followers as they did foes.

 

To explain the meaning of these titles, we must first revisit Winsland’s history.

 

About a thousand years ago, a tribe of wild seafarers roamed the eastern seas. These fierce warriors, wielding axes and donning horned helmets, discovered a vast, sunny continent covered in grasslands and decided to settle there. Thus, Winsland was born, and its first king was a barbarian chief named Heath.

 

King Heath was said to have kept a sacred wolf with black fur and golden eyes at his side. The wolf served as his protector both on and off the battlefield, its loyalty bound by its animal instinct, even acting as an executioner for anyone who dared threaten the king. The creature became the source of the people’s fear and reverence for their king.

 

One day, however, King Heath made the mistake of not bringing the wolf to a banquet, only to drink poisoned wine and meet his end.

 

The wolf, bereft of its master, retreated to the northern mountains and vanished. Legend has it that if a worthy successor enters those mountains, the wolf will accept them as its master and bestow upon them absolute sovereignty.

 

Since King Heath left no heirs, the throne passed to others, and modern scholars interpret the ‘worthiness’ to be a matter of spirit, not bloodline.

 

This romantic tale, despite church restrictions, has garnered a vast following over time. Even now, many people await the true king, chosen by the wolf. Catherine Blythe was among them.

 

Some of those who were deeply captivated by the legend often deluded themselves into believing they were the rightful ruler. The northern mountains are filled with such pilgrims, risking their lives for the chance of being chosen. According to records, those unworthy who approach the wolf are killed, making it a high-stakes gamble.

 

But Catherine was different. She began claiming that she was the wolf from the legend. She said that, for a thousand years, the long-lost spirit had walked among them in her form. An absurd, yet strangely beautiful, notion.

 

Of course, she didn’t declare this publicly. It was a quiet tale she shared with her maids, which happened to slip out. Palace rumors often start just this way — in secret, slowly taking root.

 

Catherine did indeed have black hair and golden eyes, and she knew the history of King Heath better than any scholar. When speaking of him, she would call his name with a familiarity as though they were personally acquainted. People even claimed they had seen her gazing toward the northern mountains with sorrowful eyes.

 

It could have been dismissed as mere delusion. But the nobles took it seriously. When someone at the heart of a fierce power struggle starts speaking such nonsense, it means they’re nearing their mental and emotional limits. For her adversaries, it was the perfect opportunity.

 

At last, on one spring day in May.

 

The execution grounds were overflowing with people. Even those struggling to make ends meet abandoned their work to gather outside. Nobles, reluctant to mix with commoners, set aside decorum and crowded near the courthouse windows. The entire nation — at the same time, in the same place — focused as one on a single event.

 

Catherine had achieved something remarkable, even as she was cast out from the throne. She had unified the people, regardless of rank or class.

 

The young executioner, clad in a black cloak, swung his sword several times, almost as if rehearsing. Then, grasping the rosary hanging from his neck, he closed his eyes. Before claiming a life, he always offered a prayer, believing it would guide those he killed to heaven.

 

His sword was lighter and sharper than ordinary blades, reserved exclusively for the solemn duty of bestowing a merciful death.

 

The execution platform, I’ve always thought, resembles a stage. Everything unfolds at eye level, forcing even the most grim and brutal acts to be witnessed by those below, compelling us, the onlookers, to become part of a grim theater removed from reality.

 

The executioner wields his blade with indifference, and even the condemned prisoner does not scream or weep in the face of imminent death. They know, just as we do, that the curtain will eventually fall, the seats will empty, and they will rise again.

 

It’s all just a play, after all. There’s no need to frown or feel guilty. Even those who’d normally break into a cold sweat at the sight of a dog being beaten can, in front of the executioner’s platform, view a beheading as mere entertainment.

 

His Majesty the King sat on the high court balcony, gazing down at the scaffold. His impassive face betrayed neither joy nor sorrow, as serene as the untroubled depths of a still sea.

 

Then, from a distance, someone called out.

 

“Clear the way for the condemned!”

 

The Queen had arrived, and everyone held their breath. None had ever seen such a beautiful woman so close.

 

Draped in a black cloak and with her hair neatly pinned, she maintained her dignity even as the guards treated her harshly. Her entire appearance was composed of black and gold, except for her skin, which was as pale as ivory.

 

Silence lasted only a moment before the square filled with impatient jeers.

 

“A witch!”

 

“Boo—”

 

As the Queen reached the scaffold, she handed her cloak to the young lady-in-waiting beside her, a girl who accepted it with tears streaming down her face. Then, in an unexpected gesture, the Queen lifted her hand to wipe away the girl’s tears.

 

Standing nearby, I could faintly overhear their exchange.

 

“You’re still so young. Don’t cry so,” the Queen said with gentle compassion, and the girl, her shoulders trembling, wept even harder.

 

“Save your tears, Ophelia. We all must die someday.”

 

“Your Majesty…”

 

“Worry not for me but for the child I leave behind.”

 

The lady-in-waiting clutched the hem of the Queen’s sleeve, reluctant to let her go. But as the guard shoved the Queen forward, they were finally separated. The Queen, undeterred, immediately pushed the guard’s hand away. At that moment, it seemed as though the flame that had burned within her throughout her life flared once more.

 

Before resting her neck beneath the blade, the Queen left a brief speech. She was neither a traitor nor a witch; her only sin, if any, was having loved one man wholly in her lifetime. Thus, she declared, she stood unafraid before death.

 

In that moment, I was one with the crowd. What had we come here for? What had driven us to gather from dawn to witness the execution of the Queen?

 

None among us truly believed she was the monstrous wolf she had been accused of being. Even those who had once loved her never doubted her madness.

 

Yet… what if?

 

What if, at the very last moment, she displayed some supernatural power, a miracle to cheat death?

 

In truth, each of us harbored a faint hope—that the Queen was not mad, that we were the ones who had erred, that some legendary tale might come alive before our eyes.

 

But no miracle occurred. The Queen placed her neck on the blood-stained block, and the executioner’s blade sliced through the air. The sentence began and ended in the same instant.

 

This was the final moment of Catherine Blythe, second queen of Tristan V.

 

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