They toss me into a holding cell like I'm nothing but dirt and bruises, just another body here. The door slams behind me—steel on stone, final and uncaring. I don't flinch. I've heard worse.
I sink to the cold floor, blood drying on my hands, jaw tight from where his knuckles met bone. My pulse still hammers from the fight. Not fear—something more dangerous. Something that feels too much like... reminder.
Kael Riven.
That name wasn't whispered like a rumor. It was etched into every corridor of the Vaelrin. The Council's golden boy. The one no one ever laid a hand on. Until now.
I glance down at the thin slice on my arm. Clean cut. Just deep enough to sting.
He could've cut deeper. He didn't.
Why?
His hands were warm.
His grip—controlled.
And when he asked for my name... it wasn't a tactic. It was something else. Too real.
I shake the thought away like smoke curling in my brain. I don't have space for distractions, especially the one with sharp cheekbones and silver eyes.
I didn't come here for him.
I came here for them.
The Council of Blades.
The ones who wear polished smiles and murder beneath their breath.
The ones who tore my clan apart—lit the sky over Vireya with fire, called it "peacekeeping," then erased our name like it was never carved into this land at all.
But I remember.
I was twelve when the fire came. When the banners burned. When my mother pressed the chain into my palm and told me to run.
I did. I ran until my lungs gave out.
Now, a year later, the Eclipse Trials open their gates. A grand performance of blood and spectacle. A stage. An opportunity.
They think the Trials are a test for strength.
But for me? They're the path inside.
A chance to rise. To fight. To be chosen for the Council's elite guard.
To get close enough to see the whites of their eyes when I end them.
They call me Nyra Vale now. No clan. No history.
And I told myself I'd keep it that way. That I'd play their game, pass their tests, slit their throats when the moment came.
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.
Catching my reflection in the polished edge of a fallen blade—wheat-gold skin smudged with dirt, amber eyes too sharp to be soft, hair tied back in a brutal knot. A scar curves over my collarbone like a secret. My armor's cracked. My lips are split. And I look like someone who has nothing left to lose.
Because I don't.
This face, this name—it's all a weapon. One I forged from ash and memory.
And I didn't come here to be seen.
I came here to make them pay.
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