Altair Vane's story began with a man who refused to kneel.
But not all stories begin with defiance.
Some begin with obedience.
Some begin with silence.
And some begin when the world decides that a child is not a child at all—
but a resource.
This is one of those stories.
Twenty Years Ago
The village had no name worth remembering.
It rested north of the main roads, tucked between low hills and long stretches of frost-bitten grain. Stone-and-timber houses leaned into the cold like tired old men, roofs weighed down by thin layers of snow. Smoke rose in lazy columns from chimneys, curling into the pale sky.
In the early mornings, lanterns were lit not to keep monsters away—but to guide neighbors home.
It was quiet.
Ordinary.
Unimportant.
That was why it had survived.
Until the morning it didn't.
Snow fell lightly that day.
Not enough to blanket the ground—just enough to soften sound. Footsteps sank instead of crunching. Wind moved without bite. The world felt muted, as if holding its breath.
Inside one of the smaller houses, a girl sat on the floor.
Her legs were folded neatly beneath her. Small hands wrapped around a wooden cup, steam still rising from it in thin, fragile wisps.
She was five years old.
Her name was Vega.
Her hair was silver—not shining, not radiant. Just pale enough that it caught the light differently than the rest of the room. Her eyes were darker then. Normal. Curious. Alive.
Her mother hummed softly as she worked near the hearth, fingers moving with practiced ease. The sound was gentle, absentminded—something done without thinking.
Her father stood near the door, tightening the strap of his coat.
"Don't forget," her mother said without looking up, "you promised flour this time."
"I remember," he replied, crouching down. He brushed his fingers through Vega's hair, smiling. "Be good today."
Vega nodded seriously, gripping her cup a little tighter.
"I always am."
Her father laughed.
It was warm.
He stepped outside, pulling the door shut behind him.
The sound faded.
For a few breaths, everything was the same.
Then—
The ground trembled.
Not violently.
Subtly.
Enough that the cup in Vega's hands rippled.
Her mother paused mid-motion.
She didn't turn toward the door.
She listened.
The sound came again.
Boots.
Many of them.
Measured. Heavy. Unified.
They did not hurry.
They did not hesitate.
The village felt it before it saw them.
Outside, shapes moved through the snowfall—dark lines cutting clean paths through white. Armor glinted dully beneath cloaks untouched by frost. Spears and halberds rested easily in disciplined hands.
Soldiers.
At their center, three figures walked without armor.
White and silver cloaks fell neatly around them, pristine despite the snow. Pale gold embroidery traced winged symbols across their chests—not decorative, but declarative.
Authority made visible.
They stopped in front of the house.
Not at the gate.
Not at the edge of the village.
Here.
The door did not shake.
No one pounded.
A single, firm knock echoed through the wood.
The sound carried.
Her mother's fingers tightened around the edge of the table.
Not because she was afraid—
but because no one knocked like that.
She opened the door.
Cold air spilled in.
So did silence.
The soldiers stood in formation behind the three cloaked figures, faces hidden beneath helms, unmoving as statues. The presence alone pressed inward, heavy enough to bend the room around it.
The Northern Divine Order.
One of the cloaked men smiled.
Not warmly.
Precisely.
"Good morning," he said, voice calm, practiced. "We are here on official business."
Her mother's fingers tightened around the doorframe.
Vega peeked from behind her skirt.
The man's eyes found her instantly.
And lingered.
They spoke for a long time.
Vega didn't understand the words.
"Blessing."
"Manifestation."
"Duty."
"Rare."
She didn't understand the words.
Not really.
She understood her mother's voice changing—how it thinned, how it trembled as sentences stretched too long, as if her mouth no longer trusted itself.
She understood her father returning early.
The door burst open hard enough to rattle the frame. Snow clung to his boots, breath fogging as he froze at the sight before him.
"What's going on?" he asked.
No one answered him.
The three cloaked men turned slowly, as one.
Their smiles never left.
Not when her father stepped forward.
Not when her mother moved instinctively, placing herself between him and Vega.
"Please," her mother said. "There's been a mistake."
The man in the center tilted his head, listening politely.
Then he nodded.
The sound came first.
A soft, wet slide.
Vega saw her father's eyes widen—not in pain, but in confusion—as a thin line opened across his throat. Red spilled out suddenly, violently, splashing against the wall behind him.
He tried to speak.
Only a broken, bubbling sound came out.
His knees gave way.
He collapsed sideways, fingers clawing weakly at the floor as blood pooled beneath his cheek.
Vega didn't scream.
She couldn't understand why her father wasn't standing up.
Her mother did.
She turned and ran.
Three steps.
That was all.
A hand caught her hair and yanked back hard enough to snap her head. She hit the floor with a dull sound, breath tearing from her lungs. Her hands scraped uselessly against the stone as she tried to push herself up.
She didn't make it.
The man's boot pressed down on her shoulder.
She sobbed then.
A thin, broken sound.
"Mama—!"
Vega tried to move.
Her legs didn't respond.
They felt far away. Heavy. As if someone had buried them under stone.
She kicked once.
Nothing happened.
The third man knelt in front of her.
Slowly.
Carefully.
His gloves were clean. White.
He reached out and cupped Vega's chin between two fingers, lifting her face. His touch was gentle. Almost kind.
Her vision shook.
"Look," he said softly.
She tried to turn her head.
His grip tightened.
Just enough.
Her neck wouldn't move.
Her eyes burned.
She could smell blood now. Thick. Hot. Metallic.
Her mother struggled on the floor, nails breaking as she clawed at stone, voice cracking into hoarse, wordless pleas. She reached for Vega with one trembling hand.
"Please—please—she's just a child—"
The man holding Vega didn't look away.
"This is important," he said calmly. "You must remember this."
The blade rose again.
Her mother screamed.
It cut off halfway through the sound.
Blood splashed across the floor, warm droplets striking Vega's legs, her hands, her face.
Something inside Vega slipped.
Not shattered.
Slid.
The screaming stopped meaning anything.
The colors dulled.
The sound flattened, as if she were underwater.
Her eyes stayed open.
Too open.
She watched her mother fall still.
She watched the men stand.
She watched the fire take hold.
Flames licked up wooden beams, crackling loudly, hungrily. Heat pressed against her skin, but it didn't register as pain—only pressure.
Outside, the village screamed.
Not one scream.
Many.
Layered.
Distant.
The soldiers moved through it all without urgency. Cloaks brushed past burning doorways. Spears reflected firelight as white fabric passed through smoke untouched.
The three men stepped outside.
The man who held her chin released her.
Vega fell forward onto her hands.
She didn't cry.
Her chest didn't shake.
Her mouth hung open slightly, but no sound came out.
Her eyes stared at the blood on the floor.
At the place where her parents had been.
At nothing.
When iron hands finally lifted her, chained her, dragged her from the burning house—
she didn't resist.
She didn't scream.
She didn't ask why.
Her gaze stayed fixed.
Unblinking.
The snow outside melted under falling ash.
And inside the small body of a five-year-old girl—
something closed.
Not violently.
Quietly.
Like a door that would never be opened again.
They didn't speak to her on the way north.
The carriage never stopped for her sake. When it did stop, it was for orders, inspections, changes of route. She was pulled out once to be checked—her wrists grabbed, her chin tilted, her eyes examined like livestock—then shoved back inside.
No one asked her name.
No one told her where she was going.
When the Northern Divine Order's headquarters finally rose into view, Vega did not look up.
She only felt the air change.
Colder.
Sharper.
As if the place itself rejected warmth.
They dragged her through stone corridors that swallowed sound. Torches burned at even intervals, flame steady and controlled, not flickering wildly like fire should. Boots echoed. Metal shifted. Chains rattled softly with each step she failed to keep up.
A door opened below ground.
Then another.
Then another.
The soldier behind her grabbed her collar and shoved.
She fell forward.
Hard.
Stone scraped her palms. Her knees struck the floor with a dull crack. The door slammed shut behind her with a finality that echoed through her bones.
Silence followed.
Not empty silence.
Contained silence.
The room was small.
Barely large enough for her to lie flat.
Stone walls pressed in on all sides, cold and damp, the smell of old moisture clinging stubbornly to the air. There were no windows. No cracks wide enough to let light in. Only a single iron torch bracket mounted high on one wall—empty.
Chains were fixed into the corners.
Thick.
Old.
Used.
They brought her wrists together and wrapped the manacles twice—because once was too loose for arms that thin. The metal bit into her skin when she shifted, scraping, pinching.
When they finished, they left.
No explanation.
No farewell.
The lock turned.
Footsteps faded.
Vega sat on the floor.
Her back against the wall.
Her arms pulled awkwardly forward by the chains.
She waited for her mother to call her name.
She waited for her father to come back.
She waited for the burning in her chest to turn into tears.
It didn't.
Time stopped behaving properly.
There were no days.
Only openings.
Sometimes the door opened.
A bowl was shoved inside. Thin broth. A crust of bread. Sometimes nothing at all.
Sometimes the door opened and nothing was given.
Sometimes the door didn't open at all.
Hunger came and went in waves. So did sleep. She learned to curl her legs close to keep warm, to rest her head against the wall when her neck grew tired of holding itself up.
She learned the sound of boots.
Heavy ones meant soldiers.
Light ones meant instructors.
She learned to look down.
Always down.
The first lesson came without warning.
The door opened. Light flooded the room, harsh and blinding. A figure stepped in and stopped just out of reach.
A voice spoke.
Flat.
Controlled.
"Rule one," it said. "Do not speak unless spoken to."
Vega nodded.
She didn't know why she nodded. Her body did it before her mind could think.
The voice continued.
"Rule two. Do not smile."
Silence.
"Rule three. Do not cry."
Silence again.
"Rule four. Do not touch anyone."
"Rule five. Do not resist."
Each rule was spoken slowly. Clearly. As if being carved into stone.
"Repeat."
Vega's mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
Her throat locked.
The voice waited.
Patient.
Her lips trembled.
"I—" The sound broke. Thin. Unsteady.
Pain tore through her.
White.
Sharp.
Electric.
Her body convulsed violently as current ripped through her nerves. Muscles seized. Her jaw clenched hard enough that her teeth bit into her tongue. She screamed—once—before the sound was forced out of her lungs.
The shock stopped.
She collapsed forward, chains rattling as her arms jerked.
The voice spoke again.
Calm.
"That was crying."
Silence.
"Repeat."
Her mouth opened again.
"I… won't speak unless spoken to," she whispered.
No pain came.
Her breathing hitched.
Relief confused her.
The second time she smiled, it wasn't on purpose.
A girl passed the doorway once—older, wearing white robes too big for her frame. She glanced inside by accident.
Their eyes met.
The girl flinched.
Vega smiled.
Just a little.
It felt automatic. Something old. Something human.
The door opened immediately.
Hands dragged her forward.
She was beaten until she couldn't stand.
Not wildly.
Not angrily.
Blows landed where they were meant to. Ribs. Legs. Back. Enough to drop her. Enough to make her crawl.
When it ended, she lay shaking on the floor.
The instructor knelt beside her.
"This is correction," the voice said.
A hand pressed briefly against her head.
Gentle.
"This is love."
Vega nodded.
She didn't understand the word anymore.
Her body changed before her mind understood what was happening.
It started with accidents.
A bowl slipped from a soldier's hand one morning—iron, heavy. Vega reached out without thinking.
Her fingers closed around it.
The bowl stopped mid-fall.
Didn't bend.
Didn't crack.
It simply… obeyed.
The soldier froze.
Slowly, he tried to pull it free.
It didn't move.
Another hand joined his.
Then another.
The bowl finally slipped from Vega's grip when she was shoved backward, chains rattling as she fell.
Silence followed.
Not the empty kind.
The observing kind.
That night, she was taken out of the room.
For the first time.
They brought her to a stone hall beneath the Order—wide, circular, its floor etched with faded markings she didn't recognize. Torches burned evenly along the walls, their light clean and unwavering.
Seven figures watched from above.
Not soldiers.
Not instructors.
They wore layered white robes trimmed in pale gold. Their faces were calm. Curious.
One of them spoke.
"She manifests early."
Another nodded. "Stronger than projected."
A third voice followed, pleased.
"The Blessing is authentic."
Vega didn't know what any of it meant.
They removed her chains.
Not gently.
They placed a steel bar in her hands.
"Bend it."
She stared at it.
Didn't move.
Pain followed.
A sharp crack of energy snapped through her spine, dropping her to her knees. Her teeth clamped shut as her body convulsed, breath ripped from her lungs.
"Bend it."
Her fingers shook as she wrapped them around the bar.
She pulled.
Steel screamed.
The bar twisted—slowly, unevenly—until it folded in on itself with a sound like breaking bone.
The pain stopped.
One of the robed figures smiled.
"She learns quickly."
That became the pattern.
At six, they tested her strength.
They placed grown men in front of her—soldiers armored, trained, wary.
"Lift."
She hesitated.
Pain.
She lifted.
The man rose off the ground, boots kicking uselessly in the air, eyes wide with terror.
"Enough."
She dropped him.
Pain stopped.
At eight, they placed her in a forge chamber.
Bare hands.
Heated steel.
"Hold."
She screamed the first time.
Her skin blistered, then hardened, then didn't burn anymore.
When she dropped the metal, pain tore through her chest until she picked it up again.
"Again."
Again.
Again.
They called it training.
They called it refinement.
They called it mercy.
They told her she was chosen.
That the Angel Queen had marked her at birth.
That her suffering was proof of favor.
That gratitude was expected.
She learned to bow when they spoke.
She learned to say "Yes" without hesitation.
She learned that questions earned punishment.
At seven, they brought her a wooden tablet and chalk.
They wrote symbols on the board.
She didn't understand them.
When she failed to repeat them correctly, they locked her in the dark room for two days.
No food.
No sound.
No light.
When she came out, she repeated the symbols perfectly.
They stopped trying to teach her letters after that.
Instead, they taught her how to kill.
Wooden dummies at first.
Then animals.
Then prisoners.
She was given a blade before she could spell her name.
Her hands were small.
The hilt was heavy.
"Strike."
She froze.
Pain.
She struck.
Blood splashed across her hands.
She gagged.
Pain.
"Again."
By ten, she no longer gagged.
By ten, screams became background noise.
They taught her formations—how to move with others, how to advance, how to retreat on command. How to kill efficiently, without wasted motion.
Hesitation earned punishment.
Obedience earned silence.
That was enough.
At twelve, she failed to complete a combat sequence fast enough.
They hung her by her wrists for hours.
Her feet barely touched the ground.
When her muscles gave out, they shocked her awake.
"Focus," they said.
At thirteen, she smiled once during a rest period.
Not at anyone.
Just… smiled.
They broke two fingers.
Reset them improperly.
Left them that way for a week.
At fifteen, she killed without reaction.
No trembling.
No nausea.
Her breathing stayed steady.
Her heart didn't race.
When blood sprayed her face, she wiped it away without thinking.
They praised her discipline.
Her hair was always tied.
Neatly.
Not a strand out of place.
Silver strands pulled back at the nape of her neck, secured tight enough that it never brushed her face, never fell into her eyes. It was the same style every morning. The same angle. The same tension.
No one had ever told her to change it.
So she didn't.
Her eyes were different now.
Molten gold—subtle, contained. Not glowing. Not blazing. They didn't shine unless the light struck them just right, and even then, it was muted. Like embers buried deep beneath ash.
At twenty, she stood at the front of formation.
A General.
Her armor fit perfectly—clean plates, pale silver layered over reinforced leather, pale gold lines tracing its joints. Functional. Elegant. Untouched by ornamentation.
When she walked, the floor cleared.
Soldiers straightened instinctively. Conversations died the moment her presence registered.
People bowed.
Some out of respect.
Some out of fear.
Most out of habit.
She acknowledged them with a nod.
Nothing more.
At briefings, commanders deferred to her judgment. At missions, adventurers watched her hands instead of the battlefield. When she spoke, orders were followed without question.
A Platinum-ranked adventurer.
The youngest in the history.
They admired her.
They whispered about her.
They called her the Angel's Blade.
When superiors praised her, she smiled.
Not because she felt pleased.
Because the moment demanded it.
The curve of her lips lifted—measured, precise. Just enough to be seen. Just enough to be acceptable.
Her eyes remained unchanged.
There was nothing behind the smile.
No warmth.
No pride.
No resentment either.
Just… absence.
Between missions, she stood alone in corridors while others gathered in groups. She listened to laughter without turning her head. She heard conversations without following them.
None of it reached her.
At night, she returned underground.
Not to a dungeon.
Not anymore.
Her quarters were larger now. Stone walls polished smooth. A narrow bed. A table bolted to the floor. A single lantern embedded into the wall, its light regulated, never flickering.
The door locked from the outside.
It always had.
She removed her armor piece by piece. Folded it. Placed it where it belonged. Every movement identical, practiced down to the smallest adjustment.
When she finished, she sat on the edge of the bed.
Hands resting in her lap.
Back straight.
She stayed like that for a long time.
Sometimes minutes.
Sometimes hours.
Eventually, the stillness cracked.
Her shoulders would tighten—just slightly.
Her breath would hitch once.
Then again.
She pressed her lips together to stop the sound before it could form.
Tears came anyway.
Silently.
They slid down her cheeks and soaked into the fabric of her uniform, leaving no mark on the stone floor. She didn't wipe them away. She didn't sob. She didn't curl inward.
She simply let them fall.
Not for her parents.
Their faces were blurred now.
Not for the village.
Its name had long been erased.
The ache was deeper.
More personal.
For something missing.
For someone she could not remember ever being.
She stared at her hands as tears slipped between her fingers.
Strong hands.
Hands that killed.
Hands that obeyed.
And for a fleeting moment—so brief it barely existed—there was a question.
Not rebellion.
Not anger.
Just confusion.
Who am I, when no one is watching?
The thought dissolved before it could take shape.
Because another truth sat deeper than any question.
Older.
Sharper.
She lay back on the bed and turned her face toward the stone wall.
Her breathing slowed.
Her expression emptied.
The tears stopped.
Tomorrow, she would wake when commanded.
She would stand where ordered.
She would smile when told.
Obedience was not a belief.
It was not loyalty.
It was not faith.
It was the only way she had ever survived.
And so—
Vega Raine closed her eyes.
And waited for morning.
Present Day
Vega Raine stood alone beneath the Northern Divine Order's main citadel.
The chamber was carved directly into the stone—clean lines, reinforced walls, no windows. Lantern-light reflected faintly off polished metal plates embedded into the far wall.
Chains hung there.
Unused.
Heavy links looped neatly, secured to iron rings set deep into the stone. Shackles lay open at their ends, cold and patient.
They were not decorations.
They were reminders.
Vega did not look at them.
Her gaze was fixed on her reflection.
Not in a mirror—
in a polished metal surface mounted into the wall at chest height.
The woman staring back at her was tall.
Six feet.
Straight-backed.
Shoulders squared with practiced discipline. Silver hair tied cleanly behind her head, every strand restrained. Armor fitted perfectly to her frame—light plate layered over reinforced leather, pale silver edged with faint gold.
No dents. No scratches.
Maintained daily.
Her face was calm.
Eyes steady.
Expression flawless.
A divine soldier.
A general.
She studied herself without emotion, as if inspecting equipment before deployment.
Then—
a knock.
One sharp sound.
Precise.
Her body reacted before thought.
She turned immediately, boots pivoting on stone.
"Yes."
Her voice was level. Neutral. Ready.
The door opened just enough for sound to pass through.
"General Raine," a man's voice called from beyond the threshold. "New orders from the council."
She listened.
Did not interrupt.
Did not question.
Her eyes did not change as the words reached her.
When the voice finished, there was a pause.
Then she nodded once.
"Understood."
A fraction of a second passed.
Then her lips moved.
They curved upward—just slightly.
Not too much.
Not too little.
The corners lifted with practiced precision, cheeks tightening just enough to suggest acknowledgment. Her eyes remained unchanged, molten gold steady and contained.
The smile held.
Perfect.
Acceptable.
Approved.
"By the Order's will," she said.
The door closed.
The sound echoed softly through the chamber.
Silence returned.
The smile did not fade immediately.
It lingered—
suspended.
Then, slowly, her facial muscles released.
The corners of her lips trembled before settling back into stillness.
She turned away.
Crossed the room.
And sat on the edge of her bed.
The bed was narrow but clean. Bolted into the floor. Blankets folded with military precision.
She placed her hands in her lap.
Fingers aligned.
Palms down.
Her back remained straight.
For several seconds, nothing moved.
Then—
her shoulders shook.
Just once.
A sharp, involuntary tremor that broke through discipline like a crack in stone.
She inhaled.
Held it.
Exhaled carefully.
The tremor did not return.
Vega lowered her gaze to the floor.
Stone.
Cold.
Unchanging.
Her hands clenched slowly, fingers curling inward until her nails pressed into her palms. Not enough to draw blood. Just enough to feel something.
Her chest felt tight.
Not pain.
Pressure.
A thought surfaced.
Small.
Quiet.
Dangerous.
What would it feel like… to disobey.
Her breath hitched.
The thought did not finish.
She swallowed.
Her hands loosened.
The pressure remained.
She did not rise.
She did not move.
She did not rebel.
But the question stayed.
Not loud.
Not defiant.
Just present.
The Blessing had made her powerful.
The Order had made her hollow.
And somewhere deep inside that emptiness—
something had begun to stir.
To Be Continued…