The hours crawled by, the fire dwindling to embers in the hearth as Nauthizia sat in silence. The glow of her eyes dimmed, the rawness of Constantine’s words gnawing at her. She pressed trembling fingers to her temples, as if to push away the storm of thoughts that threatened to consume her.

Her reflection stared back at her from the cracked surface of the mirror across the room. Though her features were sharp, regal, unmistakably feminine, they seemed hollow—an echo of the queen she had once been. The figure in the glass shifted subtly, the edges of her form blurring, and for a moment, it was not Nauthizia who stared back but Nauthiz: cold, commanding, male. The face she had worn to deceive the world.

Her breath hitched. She stood abruptly, her hands gripping the edge of the table as she fought the sudden surge of pain that coursed through her. It started as a tremor in her hands, spreading outward like wildfire. Her muscles seized, her bones crackled with a sound like splintering wood, and her vision blurred.

“No,” she gasped, her voice trembling. “Not now. Not—”

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The transformation struck with unrelenting force, dragging her to her knees. Her fingers clawed at the table, her nails leaving gouges in the wood as her body twisted and contorted. She screamed, the sound raw and guttural, filling the chamber with echoes of agony.

Her body betrayed her, shifting beneath her skin like an animal trying to escape its cage. The delicate lines of her face sharpened, her jaw becoming square and angular. Her limbs elongated, sinew and muscle rebuilding themselves with a horrifying efficiency. She felt her chest constrict, her breathing labored as her form compressed and redefined itself.

Her dress tore along the seams as her torso broadened, her curves flattening into the rigid planes of Nauthiz’s body. She clawed at the fabric, desperate to strip herself of it, as though removing the garment would halt the transformation. It didn’t.

The pain was unrelenting, every nerve alight with fire as her body became something she hadn’t chosen, something that felt more prison than liberation. Her voice, when it came, was deeper, a guttural shout of anguish that reverberated through the empty halls.

By the time the transformation ceased, the room had fallen into silence. Nauthiz knelt on the cold stone floor, his body heaving with the effort of breathing. His hands, now broad and calloused, gripped the remnants of the dress that had once clung to Nauthizia’s form. He stared at them in silence, his glowing crimson eyes wide with a mixture of fury and despair.

“It’s done,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “She’s gone.”