From childhood, Morgana Arven never fit into the gilded mold expected of her.
While other noble girls spent entire afternoons learning etiquette, embroidery, or music, she would discreetly slip away through the mansion gardens, running into the woods. The sound of rustling leaves, the smell of the earth, and the freedom of the forest were the absolute opposite of the suffocating aristocratic routine. But what she truly sought, whenever she escaped, was another kind of emotion: the sensation of movement, of strength, of mastery over her own body.
The first time she held a sword she was only eight years old. It was too heavy for her small hands, but even so, her fingers instinctively closed around the hilt. The metal was cold, hard, but it carried a promise—that she could shape her own destiny.
That moment, however, was not what defined her dream.
