Her city burned beneath her gaze, it's people bleeding in the streets for her cause or their own. Her husband, the king, was dead, slain by their own children, she suspected it would be her turn soon. She could hear the heavy wooden doors below buckle and strain against the onslaught.
Fondling a small, glass vial she knelt in front of the staircase just as the door below gave way, and heavy boots hit against the stone stairs. As she drank her death, her son's voice called out to her, loudly exclaiming his intentions to save her. The vial shattered.