The first scream tore through the dawn before Lysandra even had time to open her eyes. She jolted upright on the straw pallet, heart pounding, the sound of clanging bells already rolling through the village like a storm.
Smoke. She smelled it before she saw it, thick and bitter, leaking through the cracks of the wooden shutters. By the time she shoved them open, the sky above the fields was a wall of gray, and flames licked the thatched roofs on the far side of the square.
They had come.
She didn't waste time gathering belongings. Bare feet hit the dirt floor and she yanked her cloak from the peg. Outside, chaos had swallowed the village whole. Mothers dragged children by the arms, old men tried to swing rusted blades, livestock scattered into the burning fields. Shouts overlapped prayers, curses, cries for mercy.
And above it all, the war horns.
"Lys!"
Finn barreled toward her through the smoke, clutching a useless bucket of water that sloshed against his legs. At sixteen he was all elbows and panic, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat.
"They've broken through the gates!" he gasped. "Rebels; dozens of them!"
She grabbed his arm before he could run past. "Then stop throwing puddles at fire and run!"
A roar rose as men in mismatched armor stormed into the square, their faces streaked with soot and blood. They carried axes, crude spears, blades blackened from use. Rebels. They moved like men with nothing left to lose.
One of them spotted Finn frozen in her grip. His grin flashed through the smoke.
Lysandra didn't think. She yanked the bucket from Finn's hands and hurled it straight into the man's face. Water splashed, blinding him for a breath. She shoved Finn toward the alley.
"Hide!" she snapped.
The rebel roared and swung his axe, but Lysandra had already snatched up a sickle from a dropped cart. The blade was dull, handle splintered, but it was steel. She raised it with both hands, heart hammering.
The first clash rattled her bones. He was stronger, every blow meant to cut her in half. She ducked, scrambled, felt the rush of air as iron sliced past her ear. The sickle caught against his wrist, shallow but enough to make him curse. She kicked him in the knee and bolted for the square.
But she didn't make it three steps.
The rebels had herded half the village into the center. Men and women knelt, hands bound, while more rebels dragged fresh captives into the growing pile. Fire painted everything in shades of red and black. The stench of charred flesh turned her stomach.
Lysandra shoved Finn into the shadows between two carts, out of sight. "Stay. Do not move until it's quiet."
His lips trembled. "What about you?"
She forced a grin she didn't feel. "I'll make sure they're too busy to look your way."
Then she stepped out into the smoke and faced the men who had taken her home.
The rebel she'd scratched shoved her into the square with a growl. The others laughed when they saw her grip on the farm tool. A slip of a girl, face streaked with ash, pretending she was worth the steel she carried.
"Look at this one," someone jeered. "Maybe we should keep her for the general."
The laughter swelled.
Lysandra tightened her grip on the sickle. If they thought she would bow, they'd learn quickly she wasn't raised for bowing.
But before the first man could touch her, the air split with a different sound.
Trumpets.
The clash of armor.
Through the choking smoke, riders in black and gold stormed the square. The imperial guard.
Their arrival was no rescue. It was slaughter. The soldiers cut down rebels and villagers alike in the chaos, blades flashing. Screams doubled, tripled. The clash of rebellion had become a massacre, and Lysandra found herself pressed against the fountain in the square, sickle slipping from her grasp as armored boots thundered past.
One of the soldiers shoved through the bodies and caught her by the arm. His helmet was dented, eyes hard beneath the visor. He barked something she didn't catch, then froze when the edge of her cloak slipped and the chain around her neck glinted.
The pendant had slid free.
The soldier seized it, yanking it up into the firelight.
A medallion, small enough to fit in a palm. Worn, battered from years of her clutching it in secret. On its face, the unmistakable engraving: the crest of the imperial dragon.
His grip on her arm turned brutal. "Where did you steal this?"
Lysandra tried to wrench free. "It was my mother's…"
"Your mother was a thief then." He lifted the pendant higher for the other soldiers to see. "The bastard carries the emperor's seal!"
The jeers of rebels had been cruel, but the laughter of imperial soldiers was worse. Rough hands grabbed her from all sides. Someone tore the sickle from her grip. She fought, but shackles bit into her wrists before she could draw another breath.
Finn's terrified eyes appeared in the shadows of the cart. She shook her head sharply; stay hidden. Don't follow.
The soldiers didn't wait for answers. She was dragged toward the wagon lined with prisoners, shoved up into the dark belly that stank of blood and fear. The world tilted as the wheels lurched forward, the burning village shrinking behind them.
The medallion still swung heavy against her chest, as if mocking her.
The emperor's crest. Her mother's last secret.
The reason her life was no longer hers.
She spat blood from her lip and whispered, too low for anyone else to hear.
"If they want a bastard, I'll show them one."
And the chains rattled in agreement.