The Hunter family carried its name like a sword. For centuries, they had lived by land, steel, and loyalty — taking valleys, defending borders, leaving scars on maps where their reach stretched. The Hunters didn't bend. They broke others.
Daniel was born into that weight.
His earliest memories weren't of toys or games, but of his father's voice. Garrick Hunter spoke like thunder, every word cutting like an axe.
"A man does not ask for ground, boy. He takes it. And he keeps it."
Garrick repeated that line so often it felt carved into Daniel's bones. Even when Daniel hated the sound of it, he could never forget it.
Garrick was broad, thick-browed, and ruthless. He had ruled the Hunter lands since nineteen. By then he had already fought long enough to taste blood and power. When he rode into town, people whispered ...half in fear, half in reverence.
To Daniel, though, he wasn't a legend. He was just a father. And fathers were impossible to please.
His mother, Helena, was different. Slim, quiet, with eyes like stormy seas. She never lifted a sword, but she carried a weight that unsettled even Garrick. She sometimes spoke of things before they happened — fragments, whispers. She would press her hand to Daniel's forehead when he was small and say, "Your road is long. Be patient. Be kind."
Other nights she woke screaming, clutching her chest as though lightning struck her.
To Daniel, she was warm in a house made of iron. She hummed when Garrick shouted. She listened when others barked commands. She reminded him that strength wasn't only in force.
But nothing could shield Daniel from Hunter tradition. Sons were raised to fight, to command, to rule. At eight, wooden swords. At twelve, horses. At fifteen, Garrick threw him into a border skirmish with only a steel blade and the words: "Survive, or don't come home."
Daniel came home. Barely.
Now twenty-three, he carried the body of a warrior and the silence of a man too young to be so serious. He knew how to lead, how to ride, how to speak with authority even when doubt gnawed inside. But deep down, he carried a fracture — a part of him that didn't fit into the Hunter mold.
And his father despised it.
The morning sky was the color of steel when the Hunters rode to war.
Banners snapped in the cold wind. Boots hammered the frozen earth. The air carried that sharp stillness that always came before blood was spilled.
Daniel rode near the front, his father Garrick beside him, a storm wrapped in armor.
Across the plain, Dalmar's men waited, dark against the pale horizon. Daniel had fought before, but this felt different. The silence was heavier. His chest tightened, braced for what was coming.
Then Garrick raised his hand.
The line froze.
The command dropped.
And the plain field exploded.
Steel clashed. Shields splintered. Arrows hissed through the air. The ground shook beneath the weight of men.
Daniel fought as he had been taught — steady, sharp, ruthless when he had to be. His sword found gaps. His shield turned aside blows. His eyes scanned for weakness. Around him chaos pressed in, yet inside the storm a strange clarity took hold. The world slowed, every strike and movement sharper than glass.
And then the sky tore.
It wasn't thunder. It wasn't light. It was both at once, crashing together as though the world itself had cracked open.
Daniel turned. A shimmer at first, then a widening gash of light. The battlefield faltered. Men froze mid-swing, staring at the impossible thing opening before them.
And out of it fell a girl.
She hit the mud hard. Her white lab coat was streaked with dirt, the fabric standing out like snow against the black and red of the battlefield. Her clothes were strange, nothing anyone here had ever seen. Her hair was tangled, her breath ragged. Wide eyes darted around as if she had stumbled into a nightmare she couldn't wake from.
She was no soldier. No villager. No one Daniel had ever seen in this world.
Something in his chest tightened. She didn't belong here. Not just on this field — not in this *world*.
Then Garrick's roar split the silence.
"She is no child of ours! Kill it before it curses the field!"
And Garrick charged. Not at Dalmar's men..... at her.
Daniel didn't think. His body moved before his mind could catch up. He spurred his horse forward, throwing himself between his father's sword and the girl in the white coat.
"Father!"
"Move, boy!" Garrick's voice thundered, louder than the clash of war. "You know nothing of what this is!"
But Daniel didn't move. His heart pounded like war drums. He could feel her frightened breath behind him, shallow and quick.
Then — she moved.
As one of Dalmar's soldiers broke formation and lunged toward her, Anna sprang to her feet. Her body remembered before her mind did. Matthew's voice echoed in her head: *Never freeze. Move. Protect yourself.*
The soldier's sword slashed low, but she twisted, her lab coat flaring as she spun. She caught his wrist, dropped her weight, and flipped him hard into the mud. The man landed with a sickening crack.
Gasps rippled through the Hunters' line.
Anna's chest heaved, but her stance was steady, her fists tight, her eyes sharp. She looked small against the chaos, yet she didn't back down. When another came at her, she sidestepped, heel snapping into his knee. He buckled, cursing.
Daniel stole a glance at her — stunned, almost forgetting the fight at hand. She wasn't helpless. She was fighting. With him.
For the first time in years, something like pride flickered in his chest.
But Garrick's glare only hardened.
The world didn't pause for them. Swords still clashed. Men still screamed. Yet in that storm, a new bond sparked — fragile, dangerous, impossible.
The son who defied his father.
The girl who fell from the sky.
And together, they stood against a world that wanted her gone.