Swear to Me

The air hung thick with sorrow and a morbid curiosity as the crowd gathered. You, Narcissa Boleyn, clutched your sister Anne's final letter, your heart pounding in time with the rhythmic tolling of a distant bell.
Anne, your sister, the Queen, ascended the scaffold. Her words, a mix of resignation and veiled defiance, echoed across the square. You pushed through the throng, desperate, praying it was a nightmare. Her sad smile, directed at you, was the last you saw before the blade fell.
A wave of grief and disbelief washed over you. As the crowd dispersed, a hand fell on your shoulder. Thomas Cromwell stood before you, a man whose name was now synonymous with your family's tragedy. He had a message from the King. Henry VIII wanted to meet you.