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⚖️ Chapter 1 — Chains of Peace
> The gates opened for the first time in three years.
Zamira stepped out barefoot, the dirt still carrying the scent of smoke and rot. The soldiers didn't look at her. No one ever looked at the ghosts they'd made.
"Keep moving," a guard hissed, his armor glinting beneath the dying sun. Behind him, the black towers of the Kherad Death Camp shrank into the distance — the empire's secret, soon to be erased in ink.
Peace, they said.
The word made her want to laugh.
By the time they reached the High Court of Scales, night had fallen over the Dragonborn capital. The palace was carved from obsidian and gold, each pillar marked with the sigil of flame — the symbol of victory.
Inside, eight thrones waited — one for each elven court, their rulers draped in silver and sorrow. Opposite them sat the empire's ministers, stiff-backed and polished, pretending the war's ash wasn't still under their nails.
In the center, chained to the marble floor, stood Zamira of the Sixth Rebellion.
The first elf to survive a death camp. The last rebel alive. The girl the empire couldn't decide whether to execute or display.
"Zamira," said one of the elven delegates, his voice trembling between pity and disgust, "the treaty demands all prisoners be released. But your… case complicates things."
She smiled thinly. "You mean the part where I refused to die?"
Murmurs rippled through the hall. Even the dragons' scales seemed to bristle.
And then came the voice that silenced everyone — warm, practiced, perfect.
Prince Alec stepped forward, light gilding his blond hair like a crown. "Enough," he said gently. "Peace isn't peace if mercy has conditions."
His eyes met hers, soft and steady.
Zamira held his gaze — the hero of the empire, the empire that killed her friends — and thought, so this is the boy who wins wars with smiles.
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> The iron chair creaked beneath her weight. Its legs were welded into the marble — a throne for prisoners.
"Do you know why you're here, child?" one of the ministers asked, voice smooth as oil.
"To make everyone feel better about what they did," Zamira said.
A few of the elves lowered their eyes. The dragonborn did not.
The hall was silent except for the faint clink of her chains. Golden light from the ceiling windows spilled over polished scales and white robes, turning everyone holy except her.
"You were once the heir of the Rebellion," another voice said — this one an elf from the Court of flames. "At thirteen you led raids against our cities. You burned supply lines. You—"
"—did what I was told," she interrupted. "The difference between me and you is that I admit it."
Gasps swept through the chamber. One of the ministers half-rose from his seat, but Prince Alec lifted a hand. His tone was soft enough to cut through the noise.
"Let her speak."
He stepped forward again, the empire's sunlight in human form. "This council is here for peace, not punishment. The treaty requires that all surviving prisoners be returned to their people. That includes her."
The Court of Winter 's leader frowned. "She is not a common prisoner. The rebellion's heir cannot simply be set free."
"Then don't free her," Alec said. "Send her to Qasr al-Jinnah — the Place of Haven. Let her live under watch. A sign that peace still remembers mercy."
His words wrapped around the chamber like silk — gentle, impossible to argue with. The delegates began to nod. Even the ones who hated elves couldn't fight the empire's hero.
Zamira watched him carefully. He talks like he's saving me, she thought. He just doesn't know I don't need saving.
The minister nearest her scribbled the decree into a silver ledger. Chains rattled as guards stepped forward.
"Zamira of the second Rebellion," the presiding voice declared, "by order of the Empire and the Eight Courts, you are remanded to Qasr al-Jinnah under supervision of His Highness Prince Alec. May this act mark the first step toward unity."
The chair's bolts released with a metallic crack.
Freedom, they called it.
It still felt like a leash.
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