By the time the Hunters pulled back to their camp, the girl rode pressed against Daniel's chest, her body shaking, her face turned toward the dirt as though she could vanish if she kept still. She didn't speak the whole ride.
When they reached the mansion gates at dusk, fire ran across the stone walls. Servants lined the yard, their eyes catching on the girl before dropping quickly. Whispers followed her inside like smoke.
At the long oak table, no one touched the feast laid before them. All eyes slid back, again and again, to the stranger in the white coat seated near Daniel. Her hands gripped her cup like it was the only solid thing in the world.
Darius leaned forward, lips curling. "Tell us, girl. From what hole in the ground did you crawl?"
Her mouth opened, but nothing came.
"She fell from the rift," Daniel said, sharper than he meant.
The word ran through the hall like a blade. Rift. Soldiers muttered, priests touched their lips, even Caden shifted uneasily in his chair.
Garrick's voice cut them all down. "She is no guest. She is no ally. She is a crack in the world, and cracks spread. Tomorrow, her fate will be decided." His eyes pinned Daniel. "Do not mistake my silence tonight for mercy."
No one spoke again.
When the meal ended, they led Anna down into the belly of the mansion. Iron doors groaned, torches hissed in the damp air, narrow halls wound into the earth.
Her boots echoed steady, not faltering, even as the air grew colder. The guard unlocked a cell — stone walls, a cot, a single torch.
Daniel didn't protest. Not here, not now. To fight harder would only chain her fate tighter to his. But when the iron door shut, the sound echoed in his chest. He told himself she wasn't his burden. He had war at dawn. But when he lay in his bed later, her face — defiant yet weary — would not leave him.
The Prisoner
Anna sat on the cot, her knees pulled up, her back pressed to the wall. The memory of the rift splitting the sky, of voices roaring and blades flashing, still rang in her skull. The air down here was damp, heavy, and old.
She whispered her name under her breath, steady, like a lifeline. Anna. I am Anna. I won't break.
The torch flickered. Shadows stretched too far, curling unnaturally across the wall. She didn't flinch. Fear pressed close, but she kept her spine straight.
The scrape of a key made her lift her head. The iron door creaked open. A slim figure stepped in, carrying a tray — bread, cheese, water balanced carefully. A candle burned in her other hand.
"You should eat," the girl said, setting the tray down. Her voice was gentle, her eyes sharp. Dark hair tied back, plain clothes.
Anna studied her, every muscle still coiled.
The girl smiled, almost kindly. "My name is Lysa. I serve in the household. They told me to bring food."
Anna's voice was hoarse but steady. "Thank you."
Lysa tilted her head. "Anna, isn't it?"
Her chest tightened. "How do you—"
"You said it in your sleep," Lysa cut in smoothly. Her smile held, but her eyes didn't soften. "Names matter here. Keep yours close."
The words landed heavier than they should. Something about the way she lingered made the cell feel smaller, the air colder.
Anna didn't reply. She only held Lysa's gaze until the girl finally slipped out, the door groaning shut behind her.
The bread sat untouched.
At last, exhaustion pressed too hard. Anna leaned back on the cot, eyes burning but dry. She told herself she'd rest them only for a moment. But the torchlight swayed, her body gave in, and sleep dragged her under.
Through the Broken Sky
Chapter Four: Anna
Flashback
Anna's life had always been divided between what was expected of her and what she wanted for herself.
Her family was wealthy — not the kind of wealth that came overnight, but the kind passed down like inheritance of blood, layered over three generations. The Ashwood name meant estates, businesses, and respect. To her father, Richard, money meant security. To her grandmother, Evelyn, it meant reputation. To her brother, Matthew, it meant freedom.
To Anna, it meant nothing.
She wanted a purpose she could claim as her own.
When Anna was sixteen, her mother's heart gave out. Too much stress, too much pressure, too little time. High blood pressure, the doctors said. It was quick, and it left a hole in the family that could never be filled.
Her father begged her to join the family business. Her grandmother urged her to carry on the Hunter name with grace. But grief had carved something sharper into Anna. She wanted to help in the only way she thought she could.
Science. Medicine. Healing.
By seventeen, she had already chosen. She would become a pharmacist.
Her brother didn't fight her. Matthew had always been more shield than sibling. He teased her, trained her, taught her how to fight back. First with his own hands in the backyard, then with sparring gloves, and finally with taekwondo lessons.
"Brains are good," he told her. "But one day you'll need more than brains to survive."
At the time, she'd rolled her eyes. Now, she wasn't so sure.
By twenty-five, Anna was working nights in a twenty-four-hour pharmacy. She wore her lab coat with pride, loved the order of it all — bottles in rows, labels neat, shelves stacked like quiet soldiers.
The people made it worth it too.
On Thanksgiving, when a customer asked why the store was open, Anna grinned and said, "Because when someone sets themselves on fire frying a turkey, someone has to hand out burn cream."
On Christmas, when a father grumbled about shopping, she said, "Because when dads slice their hands open on toy packaging, someone has to sell gauze."
She lived for those small moments of laughter, of being useful. Even if she couldn't stop the big disasters, she could ease the little ones.
Then one night, everything changed,
It was raining the night it happened,
She was closing up, lab coat still on, sneakers squeaking across the tile as she locked drawers and checked the vaccine fridge. The hum of the overhead lights was steady until it wasn't.
The air shifted.....
Raindrops outside the window froze midair, caught like glass beads on invisible strings. The glass warped. The ceiling split with light.
Her body lifted, dragged upward. She clawed for the counter, the shelves, anything — but the world dissolved beneath her.
And then she was falling.
Not through a building. Through the sky itself.
Her scream was swallowed by the roar of battle,Mud swallowed her knees. Steel clashed. Voices shouted in a language both strange and familiar. She staggered to her feet, dazed, her lab coat spattered in dirt.
A soldier charged her, blade raised. Instinct snapped into place. She ducked, twisted, slammed her elbow into his ribs, and kicked hard. He dropped. Another came, and she raised a fallen shield, deflecting the blow.
Then a horse cut through the chaos. A man — dark eyes, scar across his cheek — struck down her attacker. Their eyes met, sharp and startling.
She didn't know his name yet, but in that heartbeat she knew him — or maybe he knew her.
Then suddenly another voice roared above the noise.
"Kill her!"
A man in full war regalia came down from his horse,His blade came down, but this man whose face melted her heart moved, and Placed himself between her and the strike. Shielded her.
That was the moment everything changed.
She barely remembered the ride back. Only the sound of whispers, the weight of stares, the heat of Daniel's arm steadying her as though she might vanish without it.
Dinner was no feast. It was a trial. Daniel's brothers watched her like she was a riddle. His father's voice broke the silence once, sharp as stone.
"She was no guest and she knew this like she knew her name.
Present day
Anna woke up suddenly and realized its morning but she was curled on the cot and this was not a dream she could wish away,she just kept whispering her own name like an anchor. *Anna. I am Anna.*
Suddenly she heard footsteps in the hall,then the door opened, she expected guards but instead, a woman stepped inside — tall, with storm-gray eyes, dressed in royalty with the crown beautifully placed on her head and the quiet grace of someone used to being obeyed.
"I am Helena," she said. "Daniel's mother."
Anna gripped the edge of the cot. "Why are you here?"she asked,
"To see the girl my son risked his life for." Helena's voice was even, but there was a flicker of something softer in her gaze. "Tell me, Anna. What world do you come from?"
Anna hesitated. How could she explain? Pharmacies, cars, plastic toys? It sounded like madness even in her own head. "A different one," she managed. "Not here."
Helena studied her, not with fear, but with a strange kind of sorrow. "Then you carry more danger than you know." She turned to leave, but paused at the door. "Whatever comes tomorrow, remember — Daniel is not his father."
And then she was gone.
The day crawled by in silence.
Anna listened for footsteps in the hall more times than she could count, though she couldn't explain why. She didn't expect kindness here, least of all from the man she came to know as Daniel. Still, some part of her thought he might come. He didn't.
Only Lysa appeared, slipping in with a tray — bread, cheese, water. She didn't linger. Didn't say much. Just placed the meal on the table, her eyes darting over Anna like she was studying a riddle, then gone again.
Anna barely touched the food.
By nightfall, the silence felt heavier than the stone walls themselves. She lay on the narrow bed, staring at the ceiling, telling herself she was safe. For now.
But then—
The sound.
Not footsteps. Not keys. A whisper, sliding under the door, curling through the air like smoke.
Her name.
*Anna.*
She froze, breath shallow, heart hammering.
The torchlight flickered once, then went out.
And the darkness moved.