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This short story is a purely fictional, fantasy narrative created for entertainment purposes only, inspired by AI-generated imagery from aigorepic.com. All content is artificial, with no real victims or events depicted. It contains extreme violence, gore, and disturbing themes. Generated Gore does NOT promote, encourage, or condone violence, harm, or illegal activities in reality. Strictly 18+ only. Viewer/reader discretion is strongly advised. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.
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The Tray of Treason
In the shadowed heart of the kingdom of Veyrath, King Aldric ruled with an iron hand wrapped in velvet. His queen, Lady Elara, had once been the jewel of the court—dark-haired, sharp-eyed, and whispered to possess a beauty that could unmake men. For years she stood beside him on the dais, her smile as bright as the rubies at her throat. But whispers grew into poison. Letters. Stolen glances. A knight from the eastern marches who rode too close to the queen’s shadow.
When the truth clawed its way into the open, Aldric’s rage was quiet and terrible. He said nothing to Elara at first. He simply summoned his most loyal captain, a scarred man named Torren, and spoke four words: “Bring me her head.”
Elara fled at dusk, cloaked in servant’s wool, riding hard through the frost-bitten forests. She believed the border was close enough to save her. She was wrong.
Torren and six riders tracked her for three days. They found her horse lame beside a frozen stream. She fought—clawed, bit, screamed curses—but iron cuffs eventually kissed her wrists. They bound her across a saddle like a hunter’s prize and carried her back to the capital in silence.
The great hall of Veyrath was lit only by braziers that night. King Aldric sat upon the throne, still wearing the heavy ermine mantle he had donned for a council that never happened. His face was stone. His eyes never left the arched doors.
They dragged Elara in on her knees. Her gown was torn and muddied, her once-elegant ponytail frayed and matted with blood from a gash above her eyebrow. She lifted her chin, defiant even now.
“You loved him,” Aldric said. Not a question.
“I loved freedom,” she spat. “You gave me a cage.”
He nodded once, as though she had confirmed the weather. Then he gestured to Torren.
They forced her down onto the cold marble. Two guards pinned her shoulders; another gripped her ponytail and yanked her head back until the tendons in her neck stood out like harp strings. Torren stepped forward, drawing the heavy executioner’s blade from its oiled sheath. The edge caught the firelight and flashed dull red.
Elara’s breathing came fast and shallow. “Aldric—please—”
The king raised one finger. The hall went silent except for the crackle of flame.
Torren positioned himself. He measured the angle with professional calm. One clean stroke was the merciful way, and Torren was nothing if not precise.
The blade rose.
It fell.
There was no dramatic wind, no slow-motion arc. Only a wet, heavy thunk as steel met flesh and bone. The head came away in a single practiced motion, the neck parting with a sound like tearing wet cloth. A bright gush of arterial blood sprayed across the marble in a wide fan, painting the legs of the nearest guards crimson. The body jerked twice, spasmed, then slumped forward, arms still pinned. Blood poured from the ragged stump in thick, pulsing ropes, pooling beneath the shoulders and running in rivulets toward the throne steps.
Torren bent, fingers knotting in the dark hair. He lifted the head high. Elara’s eyes were half-open, lips parted in what might have been surprise or a final curse. Blood dripped steadily from the severed neck onto the polished silver tray one of the servants had already placed on the floor.
Torren carried it forward. He set it down before the king with almost ceremonial care. The tray rang softly as metal met marble. Blood immediately began to spread beneath the chin, creeping toward the embossed rim.
Aldric stared at what remained of his queen. For a long moment he did not move. Then he reached out and brushed a lock of hair from her cooling cheek with the back of one gloved finger.
“Take the body to the courtyard,” he said quietly. “Let the crows have what’s left.”
They obeyed.
The headless corpse was dragged out by the ankles, leaving a wide, glistening smear across the hall floor. In the open air, under a moon the color of bone, they stripped the ruined gown away. Torren himself took up a woodsman’s axe. With methodical swings he separated the limbs at the joints—shoulders, elbows, hips, knees. Each chop echoed off the stone walls like hammer blows. Blood and marrow flecked his leather apron. The torso was split last, ribs cracked open like a book. Organs glistened wetly in the torchlight before they, too, were tossed onto the refuse heap.
By dawn the crows had already gathered. They hopped and squabbled over the pieces scattered across the frozen ground. What little flesh remained would be gone before noon.
Inside the keep, King Aldric sat alone on his throne. The silver tray had been removed, scrubbed clean, and returned to the kitchens. A faint smell of copper lingered in the air.
He looked at the empty space beside him where Elara once stood.
Then he closed his eyes.
