The journey to the capital was a march of misery.
The captives were herded like livestock, wrists bound, heads lowered. Those who stumbled were beaten. Those who cried too loudly were silenced. Vanella kept her gaze down, shoulders slumped, body bent as if exhaustion alone held her upright. She learned quickly—weakness was safer than defiance.
No one looked twice at her.
That was the point.
Days later, the gates of the capital rose before them—towering walls of black stone crowned with banners bearing the sigil of Raven Darward Acosta. The Dragon Throne. The heart of the empire that had butchered her home.
As they were dragged through the gates, whispers spread among the prisoners.
"The palace…" "They say no captive leaves it alive." "They say the conqueror watches executions for sport."
Vanella listened and remembered every word.
Inside the palace grounds, the air changed. It was cleaner. Colder. The scent of blood was faint—but old, soaked into stone that had seen centuries of conquest. Servants lined the paths, eyes lowered. Guards stood rigid, hands on their weapons.
Then the courtyard fell silent.
A single figure stood at the top of the stone steps.
Raven Darward Acosta.
He did not shout. He did not threaten. He merely watched.
Tall. Still. Draped in dark robes trimmed with gold, as if the empire itself had settled on his shoulders. His gaze swept over the captives slowly, methodically—like a blade being tested for sharpness.
When his eyes passed over Vanella, something inside her tightened.
Not fear.
Awareness.
She forced herself to breathe evenly, to keep her head bowed. She was no princess now. Just another broken survivor. If he sensed otherwise, she was dead.
"Separate them," Raven said calmly. "Skilled workers to the east quarters. The rest to the lower holdings."
His voice was even. Controlled. Terrifying in its lack of emotion.
A prisoner screamed when families were torn apart. A guard struck him down without hesitation. Blood splattered across the stone.
Vanella flinched—just slightly.
Her fingers brushed the ground.
Pain exploded behind her eyes.
A flash—steel cutting flesh, screams echoing, her father falling, her mother reaching for her—
She staggered.
A guard grabbed her arm roughly. "Move."
For a split second, the water in a nearby stone basin rippled violently, sloshing over the edge.
No one noticed.
Vanella didn't look at it.
She straightened, swallowing the nausea, and stepped forward.
Raven's gaze lingered on her for a heartbeat longer than necessary.
Then he turned away.
"Take the women inside," he said. "The palace will decide their worth."
As Vanella was dragged toward the inner halls, she made herself a promise—quiet, unbreakable.
She would endure. She would remember. And this palace, built on blood and silence, would one day choke on the truth it had buried.