The sun was unforgiving.
Cassian Varro had always admired that about it.
It did not hesitate.
It did not bend.
It did not apologize.
It simply burned.
He stood at the highest step of the tribunal platform, black armor absorbing heat while the marble beneath his boots reflected it. Below him, the courtyard of the royal palace overflowed with bodies nobles draped in silk, soldiers in rigid formation, commoners pressed against iron barriers.
They had come for blood.
He would give it to them.
General Kahem knelt at the center of the execution square.
Even in chains, the man held himself like a commander reviewing troops rather than a traitor awaiting death. Spine straight. Shoulders squared. Chin lifted.
That posture alone had been dangerous.
Men like Kahem did not need crowns to command loyalty.
They inspired it.
And loyalty, when misplaced, destroyed kingdoms.
Cassian folded his hands behind his back, gaze sweeping over the gathered crowd. The banners of the throne scarlet and gold snapped in the wind above them. The color of power. The color of permanence.
The color of warning.
He had argued for weeks before this moment.
Arrest him quietly, some had urged.
Strip him of command.
Exile him.
Fools.
Exile created martyrs.
Silence created rumors.
Public execution created certainty.
Certainty was stability.
His gaze shifted.
And found her.
Nyxara of House Kahem.
She knelt several paces from her father, wrists shackled in iron. Two guards forced her shoulders downward, yet she resisted without struggling holding her spine rigid as if the chains were nothing more than decorative jewelry.
She was not crying.
That struck him first.
Most daughters would have broken by now.
Most would have wept or screamed or begged.
She did none of those things.
Her face was pale beneath the sun, but her chin was raised. Her dark hair fell loose over her shoulders, catching the light like spilled ink. Her eyes burned with a heat that rivaled the desert itself.
Hatred.
Pure.
Focused.
Directed at him.
Interesting.
He forced his attention back to her father.
This was not personal.
It could not be.
Kahem had grown too influential among the southern legions. Reports had reached Cassian's desk for months whispered pledges of allegiance, private gatherings, officers more loyal to their general than to the throne.
That was not rebellion.
Not yet.
But it was the soil in which rebellion grew.
Cassian stepped forward, voice carrying across the courtyard effortlessly.
"General Kahem," he called, tone precise and unwavering, "you stand accused of conspiring against the throne and cultivating division within the royal armies. Do you deny these charges?"
The courtyard quieted.
Even the wind seemed to hesitate.
Kahem lifted his head.
His gaze did not move to Cassian.
It moved to his daughter.
Always to her.
Cassian noticed that too.
A weakness.
Or perhaps… a legacy.
"The throne," Kahem said calmly, "is already cursed."
A murmur rippled outward.
Cassian's jaw tightened subtly.
"And so," Kahem continued, voice steady despite the blade positioned near his throat, "is the man who stands beside it."
The accusation hung in the air like dust after a storm.
Cassian did not react.
He had endured worse.
Words did not threaten him.
Power did.
He lifted one gloved hand.
The executioner stepped forward.
Below, Nyxara surged against her restraints.
"Father!"
The word cut sharply through the courtyard.
Cassian did not look at her.
He kept his gaze on Kahem.
The blade rose.
Sunlight flashed along its edge.
It fell.
The sound was final.
The general's body collapsed forward onto marble already warm from the day's heat.
Scarlet spread slowly outward.
For a heartbeat, silence engulfed the courtyard.
And then something changed.
Cassian felt it before he saw it.
A pressure shift.
A tightening in the air.
Like the moment before lightning strikes.
His gaze snapped to Nyxara.
The guards had stepped back from her.
Not intentionally.
Instinctively.
The sand at her knees stirred.
Not from wind.
Not from movement.
It lifted in a thin spiral around her shackled wrists.
The banners above snapped violently as a sudden gust tore across the courtyard.
Gasps erupted among the nobles.
Whispers.
"Omen." "Curse." "Witch."
Cassian descended the tribunal steps slowly.
Deliberately.
He did not allow hesitation into his stride.
Fear spread faster than plague.
And if he showed it, the entire kingdom would follow.
The sand circled her now in a faint golden halo, grains catching sunlight as they lifted unnaturally into the air.
Her head tilted upward.
Her eyes
For the briefest moment
They glowed.
Not bright.
Not blazing.
But gold flickered through dark irises like molten metal beneath glass.
Fascinating.
The guards looked ready to flee.
Cassian raised his voice sharply.
"Hold your positions."
Authority snapped through the air like a whip.
He stepped directly in front of her.
Up close, he could see the fine tremor in her breathing. The pulse at her throat. The grief she was fighting to contain beneath layers of fury.
The sand began to settle gradually, falling back to marble as if embarrassed by its own rebellion.
Her gaze locked onto his.
There were no tears now.
Only promise.
"I will kill you," she said quietly.
No hysteria.
No empty dramatics.
A vow.
Cassian studied her face carefully.
Grief forged people in two ways.
It shattered them.
Or it hardened them into weapons.
She would not shatter.
He could see that already.
"You may attempt it," he replied calmly.
Something in her expression shifted.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
As if she had expected resistance and found instead something more dangerous.
Acceptance.
He leaned slightly closer, lowering his voice so only she could hear.
"If you intend to curse me," he murmured, "you will require more than anger."
For a fraction of a second, the air between them tightened again.
A faint pulse.
Not from him.
From her.
And yet
It did not affect him.
He felt it.
But it did not move him.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
The guards pulled her backward at last, chains rattling sharply against stone.
She did not break eye contact.
Not until distance forced it.
The courtyard resumed its noise gradually frightened murmurs, speculative whispers about omens and divine punishment.
Cassian turned his attention back to the execution block.
Kahem's blood stained the marble permanently now.
Necessary.
Regrettable.
But necessary.
He had secured the throne.
Eliminated a threat.
Demonstrated strength.
And yet…
His mind returned to the girl in chains.
The way the sand had answered her grief.
The way her eyes had burned gold.
The way she had vowed his death without flinching.
He should have ordered her imprisoned quietly.
Exiled.
Silenced.
Instead, a thought unfurled slowly in his mind.
A dangerous one.
If she was powerful
If what he had witnessed was not coincidence
Then perhaps she was not a liability.
Perhaps she was an asset.
The throne was fragile.
Enemies pressed from beyond borders. Rome's influence grew heavier by the month. Noble houses whispered in shadowed corridors.
Power recognized power.
And Nyxara Kahem, shackled and furious, possessed something raw beneath her grief.
Something ancient.
Something that had stirred at the sight of blood.
Cassian allowed himself a faint, almost imperceptible smile.
Let her hate him.
Hatred bound people tighter than loyalty.
As the guards dragged her through the palace gates, he made his decision.
He would not exile her.
He would not execute her.
He would keep her where he could see her.
Where he could measure her.
Where he could use her.
The sun continued to burn overhead, indifferent to everything it had witnessed.
Cassian watched until she disappeared from view.
And only then did he allow the truth to settle fully in his mind.
Today, he had executed a general.
But he had awakened something far more dangerous.
And he intended to claim it before anyone else realized what it was.