TRAINING GROUNDS
The training fields of Crown's Castle stretched wide as a shallow sea, ringed by iron-spiked walls and shadowed by the black towers of the ancient fortress. It was said the grounds could hold five hundred knights at once, and on this morning, they nearly did. The air was thick with sweat and dust and the war-chant rhythm of men locked in drill. Steel clashed against steel. Arrows sang across the sky. Grunts, shouts, and curses blended into one coarse hymn of effort.
These were not raw soldiers of the Empire's armies but men of the Emperor's Guard, Firons, all of them, bred for battle and glory. They trained beneath the eyes of death itself, for Emperor Kaida Keres Vuskasin watched from the center of the ring, shirtless and unflinching, his golden mane glistening with sunlight and old blood. His skin bore the legacy of battle, scars like rivers across mountains, and his fists were red to the wrist.
A man lay sprawled at his feet. General Karthis of the First Division, known to his men as the Lion of the Golden Flakes, coughed up blood into the dust. His armor had been stripped from him hours ago; now only his dignity remained, and even that faltered.
"Come now, general," the Emperor said, his voice carrying across the field like thunder rolling low across hills. "At least try to make me sweat."
Karthis staggered to his feet, lips split and one eye swollen shut. He raised his bruised fists with trembling resolve. "I've yet to yield, Your Majesty," he said, and his voice, though hoarse, did not shake.
Kaida threw back his head and laughed, sharp and cold as winter wind. "Good." He raised his fists in return, crimson from the last exchange. "Let's see if you can survive one more round."
The whistle sounded.
And in that breathless second before fists met flesh once more, the attention of the knights shifted, not all, but some, enough to stir murmurs. Heads turned. Training slowed.
A girl had entered the grounds.
It was not just that she was a woman in a place reserved for hardened men, nor that she walked with poise instead of fear. It was her presence, subtle yet sovereign, veiled in black and dressed in crimson stitched with gold. Her gown, though elegant, was soaked at the hem from temple dew, trailing damp across the dust of the yard. Her veil fluttered as she moved, revealing glimpses of porcelain skin and a mouth too still for comfort.
Aneria.
She followed close behind Sir Jesterion, Scarface, to those who knew the story of her capture. He held her wrist tightly, leading her like a lamb through a forest of wolves. The knights parted for her, sweat-slicked and bare-chested, their gazes sharp with curiosity and something else.
By the time they reached the inner ring of the circle, the general had fallen again.
This time, he did not rise.
Kaida stood over him, chest heaving, not from exhaustion but from the roar of victory that rose around him. Blood stained his knuckles and speckled his chest. The general laid in the dust, jaw broken and teeth scattered like bone dice. With the last of his strength, he dragged his fingers through the red soil and carved three letters into the dirt: VES, surrender, in the old Firon tongue.
The Emperor raised his arms, and the crowd erupted.
"Get the general to the healers," Kaida commanded, voice still mirthful. A few younger knights scrambled forward, lifting the unconscious man with reverence.
That was when Kaida saw her.
He stood still, bloodied and radiant, as his gaze cut across the distance like a blade. "Aneria," he called.
All movement ceased.
Knights turned to her as though she were a flame in a darkened hall. Aneria felt the heat of their eyes press against her skin like brands. She wished, for a moment, that she could turn to smoke and disappear.
"Come, child," the Emperor said, lifting one hand as if calling a favored hound.
With grace that masked the quickening of her heart, she stepped forward. Her voice was low but steady. "Greetings, Your Majesty," she said, bowing just enough to show respect without subservience.
Kaida studied her through narrowed golden eyes. "Do you know why I summoned you?"
She shook her head, her veil swaying.
"We found the mountains," he said, half-heartedly. "The ones you spoke of. And your father was right, the Ertic moutains have magic stones."
Aneria offered a small smile. "Then congratulations, Your Majesty."
Kaida tilted his head. "Why are you congratulating me?" he asked, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make her question her words. "Did I say we have the stones?"
Laughter rippled through the crowd like wind through reeds, low, restrained, but unmistakable.
Aneria did not flinch. "May I ask, then, if there is some sort of complication?"
The Emperor's smile faded. He stepped closer. "Yes. A very delicate one. The Seafront Kingdom, the one squatting over our prize, refused to yield. They cling to treaties and promises made in softer times. Were they alone, I would crush them in a day, salt their fields, and string their king from the cliffs." He paused. "But they are not alone. They are bound to the Sasharis Empire, and that is a war I do not yet wish to fight."
A hush fell over the ring.
Kaida continued, "We trample the Seafront Kingdom, we lose our only ally. The Sasharis Empire may march. They too wield a shard of the Lumina, one nearly equal in power to the one the Sakaris hold. They have stones in abundance and the fire to use them. I could break them, yes, but not without the cost of tens of thousands of Firon lives. And that is not a price I enjoy paying."
He paused again, his gaze fixed on her. "So tell me, Neketis. What do you suggest we do?"
And the crowd leaned in, silent, as the girl in red stood surrounded by blood, dust, and kings.
Kaida's golden gaze remained fixed on her, half-lidded with laziness, though his voice still carried like a judge's gavel. "So," he said, as if the question were hardly worth breath, "what would you suggest we do?" he repeated
Aneria swallowed hard, the heat of a hundred stares burning her skin beneath her veil. Her tongue felt like ash in her mouth, yet her voice emerged smooth, cold, clipped, deliberate.
"If the Seafront Kingdom refuses to aid the Empire in its hour of need," she began, "then I do not see an ally. I see an enemy. And if the Sasharis Empire chooses to defend such arrogance, then perhaps they, too, desire to see Firon fall. They have stones, plenty of them, yet they offer us nothing. Nothing but silence and treaties made to bind our hands."
She lifted her chin slightly. "This treaty was never for peace. It was a leash, forged to restrain the Empire's might. If the Seafront Kingdom has what we need and refuses to share it, then we take it. Quietly. Swiftly. Before they can raise their banners or cry for help. Let them choke on their pride."
Silence. A long, heavy silence.
Then Kaida barked out a laugh, loud and raw as a thunderclap. "Genius!" he roared, placing a blood-slicked hand on Aneria's shoulder. "Do you all hear her? Our innocent beauty speaks like a warlord. The Empire marches to war!"
The knights roared. Steel rang against shields. Spears clattered in salute. Yet behind the forced cheer, many faces twisted in confusion, even contempt. Some of the old guards whispered behind their hands. A girl, no more than a slip of a thing, daring to speak on imperial matters, let alone advise the Emperor? It was madness. Her words were sharp, but her wrists were slender, and her eyes had known no battlefield. Yet Kaida only grinned.
"And you, little flame," he said aloud, voice rich with amusement, "will lead the Sixth Army. The Blackwoods."
The cheers died.
Silence fell like a guillotine.
Every knight froze. The Blackwoods. A condemned legion of outcasts, cutthroats, deserters, and criminals barely fit to wear the Empire's colors. A legion stationed in the north of Firon, sent only where death was certain. Leading them was not a duty, it was a sentence.
Aneria didn't move. Her breath caught like a fishbone in her throat.
Kaida's grin widened. "Come now," he said with mock cheer. "Celebrate. Our precious Neketis has just become a general."
The knights roared once more, though the sound was hollow this time. Many shouted only because they must. Only Sir Jesterion did not clap or nod. He merely stepped forward with that same dead-eyed calm.
"Take her back to her palace," Kaida commanded. "She's a busy girl now. She'll need rest before her campaign."
Jesterion took her arm, as he had done eleven years ago when he dragged her through fire and ash, and led her wordlessly away. Aneria did not speak. She did not fight. She did not cry.
But she did not feel the earth beneath her feet as she walked.
The journey back to Pearl Palace was made in silence.
No words passed between them, not in the carriage, not on the steps, not even when he stopped and handed her down. Only as she turned away did his gravel voice finally come.
"I'll be here at dawn."
She didn't answer. Only nodded.
Then the doors shut behind her.
And Aneria screamed.
A sound tore from her throat like a wounded animal's cry, raw, loud, and strangled with something older than fear. She ripped her veil off and hurled it to the marble floor, where she collapsed beside it. Cold stone met her skin, but she did not move. She did not tremble. She lay there, on her side, fists clenched, mouth open, but her eyes did not weep. She had forgotten how to.
Minutes passed. Hours, perhaps.
By the time she rose, the stars had shifted beyond the high windows, and Sir Jesterion was long gone.
She dragged herself toward the bathing chambers like a ghost of herself, limbs aching, breath shallow. Her fingers trembled as she pushed open the carved door.
The chamber was vast and cold despite its steam. Beneath a great domed ceiling, slender white columns rose like the bones of some slumbering beast. Mosaic tiles adorned the walls in patterns worn by time, blue and ivory, depicting stories no one remembered. The basin at the center waited empty, its marble stained with the passage of centuries.
Aneria had no maids. No magic stones to heat her water. She fetched it herself, again and again, hauling buckets from the kitchen stove, blistering her palms on the iron handles. Only once the bath was filled and the steam coiled like serpents along the ceiling did she stop.
She stripped. Slowly. Without ceremony.
Then stepped into the water.
It cradled her like a grave.
Her muscles sighed in relief, but her thoughts did not. She tilted her head back along the curved edge of the basin and stared at the faint starlight dripping through the ceiling's pierced patterns.
"This place is exhausting," she whispered.
The words echoed.
"Why in earth's name would he do that?" she asked the ceiling. "Why send me to war?"
Her fist struck the surface of the water, sending ripples across the bath. She closed her eyes.
"I don't want this."
But then, softer, "Still... at least I'll be free of the harem."
Her hand drifted to the side of her neck, to the place where a scaled mark coiled beneath her skin like a brand. She pressed it. Beneath her fingers, something slithered.
The creature stirred. A parasite bred by Firon alchemists, its purpose, simple: kill her the moment she leaves the compound unauthorized.
"I'll finally be able to get out of here!" she muttered. The water lapped at her throat.
She finished her bath and slipped into a gown to cover herself before heading to the kitchen to grab a carrot to chew on. Without changing into any proper sleeping attire, she wandered to her room and collapsed onto a random bed, still clad in the gown. Despite the early hour, sleep claimed her swiftly. The half-eaten carrot still clutched in her hand, she fell into an unexpectedly deep, untroubled rest.
In a blink, morning came. Aneria woke, surprised at how well and how long she had slept. Oversleeping was the only mercy the new day offered. The rest was hell.
She sat in the kitchen, pushing a spoonful of porridge around her bowl, struggling to digest the bland meal. Her hair was styled into a braided updo, and she wore a gown of deep sapphire velvet. The heavy fabric pooled in long, flowing folds around her feet. Silver embroidery traced curling vines and delicate leaves across the bodice and skirt. A neat row of tiny metal buttons caught the light with muted glints down the front.
The neckline was a simple square, edged with fine stitching that framed her collarbones with understated elegance. The fitted sleeves clung to her upper arms before giving way to cascading layers of sheer, ice-blue silk that flowed from elbow to wrist, secured with narrow bands. The overskirt parted at the front, revealing a lighter blue inner panel, embroidered with the same intricate patterns and bordered by trailing lengths of thin fabric that shifted with every subtle movement. At her waist, a small jeweled ornament caught the light in soft flashes. The hem brushed the floor as she moved, whispering secrets in its wake.
Suddenly, a horse's loud neigh and the rattling wheels of a carriage outside broke through the quiet. Aneria hastily pushed the spoonful of porridge back into her bowl and hurried toward the palace doors, desperate not to be late.
She took a deep breath, plastered a false smile on her face, and opened the doors. Standing before her was Scarface. Aneria let out an awkward laugh and placed her hand behind her neck.
"Remove your hand," Scarface commanded sharply.
Confused, Aneria obeyed. Without warning, Scarface grasped her neck firmly and muttered a chant in a low, guttural voice that she couldn't understand. Slowly, the mark on her neck faded, and the skin on the right side parted without spilling a single drop of blood. From the opening, a tiny, scaled creature, purplish-green and slithering, emerged. Scarface opened his palm, and the creature floated into it before the skin closed seamlessly. Aneria's eyes widened. She had never known Scarface was a Sterling, one gifted with the power of branding. It was likely he who had branded her when she first arrived at the harem.
Scarface released her neck and appraised her from head to toe, shaking his head in mild disapproval. "Are you not bringing anything else?" he asked, noticing she carried no bags.
Aneria shook her head. Why would she bring anything?
After a brief pause, Scarface regained his usual emotionless composure. "Shall we go?"
She only nodded, holding her hand to the spot where the branded creature had emerged. Her mind was a storm as she stepped into the carriage. What sort of army were the Blackwoods? Would they respect a woman's command? Could she lead them to victory, or would this be her death sentence?
She leaned back against the seat, the weight of the unknown pressing down on her, her thoughts as heavy as the velvet gown draping her frame.
Some thirty long minutes had passed since the carriage had departed, and now it came to a slow halt at the imposing gates of the city. The massive iron-bound doors groaned open, their hinges protesting with ancient creaks that echoed like distant thunder. Aneria blinked, as if emerging from a dream, and instinctively drew back the heavy velvet curtain to peer cautiously through the narrow window slit.
Beyond the glass, the city sprawled out like a sleeping beast beneath the pale light. The streets were faintly visible through the morning mist, winding like dark ribbons between stone buildings crowned with slate roofs. Her heart thudded in her chest with an excitement she scarcely recognized, a fragile flutter of hope in a world that had long since taught her to expect despair.
For a fleeting moment, it seemed as if destiny might favor her. Perhaps, she thought, she would glimpse the market stalls bursting with fresh bread, wild fruits, and the lively cries of merchants hawking their wares. Maybe the city would offer a brief reprieve, a chance to step beyond the suffocating confines of the harem and breathe in the bustling life of the realm. It was a foolish hope, she knew, yet it warmed her like a secret ember against the chill of her doubts.
But that faint spark of anticipation was cruelly extinguished before it could kindle into flame. The carriage wheels did not turn forward to the city gates as expected. Instead, they veered sharply to the left, the path curling away from the familiar streets and into the shadowed embrace of the Blackwood forest. The dense trees loomed like silent sentinels, their twisted branches clawing at the pale sky.
Aneria let out a dry sigh and rolled her eyes in bitter resignation before pulling the curtain closed once more. The forest's darkness was no place for hope. She had long learned that good fortune was a stranger to her life, a fleeting ghost that slipped through her fingers whenever she reached out.
She glanced forward, her gaze settling on Scarface. Even in rest, the man was a figure carved from shadow and menace. He leaned back against the seat with a rigid stillness, his eyes closed but unmoving beneath thick brows. There was a terrible serenity in his expression, like a predator waiting patiently for the kill.
In that moment, Aneria's chest tightened with a mixture of fear and determination. The path ahead was uncertain, shrouded in dangers she could only guess at. Yet the quiet menace of the forest and the cold presence of Scarface beside her were stark reminders that her fate was no longer hers to command.