The rain struck the stone courtyard like war drums, heavy and relentless, as if mourning the death of a king.

But inside the cathedral, silence reigned.

Y/n Choi stood at the edge of her father’s casket, cloaked in black from head to toe. Her long coat fluttered slightly with the wind that crept through the open cathedral doors. Her face—pale, poised, unreadable—held no sign of grief. Only fire. Controlled, but dangerous.

She hadn’t cried. Not when she found his body slumped over his desk, blood soaking through white cotton. Not when the autopsy confirmed it was no accident. And not even now, surrounded by men who once bent the knee to her father but now whispered doubts about his daughter taking the throne.

She didn’t care.

She would earn their fear before their respect.

Vincenzo, her father’s most loyal advisor, stepped beside her. “Are you ready, My Lady?”

Y/n turned her gaze to him slowly. “It’s Queen Choi now,” she said coolly.