The Pickette loomed in the distance, its jagged silhouette etched against the dim violet haze of the Lunar Storms. Daenys leaned against the parapet of her newly claimed fort, the cold stone seeping into her hands as her gaze remained fixed on the horizon. The weight of the victory lingered, heavy and cold, and the scar beneath her robes throbbed faintly, a constant reminder of the price paid.
She heard the soft scrape of boots behind her. No alarm came from Tengri, who stood silently at her side. That could mean only one thing.
"Gahkar Daenys, brooding already?" Lexin's voice was a velvet drawl, smooth and cutting in equal measure. He appeared from the shadowed staircase, a cloak of dark silk draped over his shoulders, the Outsider of the Light moving with feline ease. His dagger-like smile was firmly in place. "One would think victory would taste sweeter."
Daenys didn't turn. "Some victories are harder to savor," she replied evenly, keeping her voice neutral.
Lexin stepped closer, his footfalls almost silent, and leaned casually against the parapet beside her. His pale eyes, sharp and probing, flicked toward her, but his expression was one of idle amusement. "You're learning quickly. That's good. Sweet victories are dangerous—they lull you to sleep. Bitter ones sharpen you."
"You didn't come here to share wisdom," Daenys said, finally turning to look at him. Her gaze was steady, but her fingers curled tightly around the stone. "What do you want, Lexin?"
His smile widened, revealing teeth too white and too perfect. "Do I need a reason to visit an ally?" he asked, his tone light, almost teasing. "We're on the same side now, are we not?"
Daenys' eyes narrowed. "We're on the same battlefield. That's not the same thing."
Lexin laughed softly, a low, melodic sound that somehow felt out of place in the storm. "You wound me, Daenys. Truly."
She didn't respond, and Lexin's laughter faded. He tilted his head, his smile remaining, but something colder flickered behind his gaze. "Tell me," he began, his tone shifting, becoming quieter, silkier. "What do you think you've won?"
Daenys stiffened. "The Pickette," she said firmly. "A foothold for Estil. A step toward crushing Astad's hold on Lorian."
Lexin hummed thoughtfully, his fingers tracing an idle pattern on the stone. "And what then? Do you think Astad will simply crumble because you've taken one fort? Do you think the Castellan Court will hail you as a hero and shower you with glory? Do you think the other Gahkar will stand aside and let you keep your prize?"
She didn't answer immediately. The storm howled around them, tugging at her cloak. "I think the Pickette is a start," she said at last. "And I'll handle what comes after when it comes."
Lexin's smile turned razor-sharp, and he leaned closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "You speak like someone who hasn't learned how the game is played. Allow me to enlighten you."
His hand moved slowly, deliberately, as he pulled a dagger from his belt. It wasn't a threat; his movements were too fluid, too calculated for that. Instead, he laid the blade flat on the parapet between them, the polished steel gleaming faintly in the dim light.
"This," Lexin said, his tone soft and almost intimate, "is the world you've stepped into, Daenys. It's not the sword that wins wars—it's the dagger. It's not about strength, or courage, or even strategy. It's about knowing where to press the blade. Where to cut so the blood flows without staining your hands."
Daenys' eyes flicked to the dagger, then back to Lexin's face. "I've seen enough blood to know that it stains no matter what," she said, her voice cold.
Lexin's grin didn't falter. "Ah, but that's where you're wrong. Blood only stains if you're clumsy. If you're careful, it vanishes, like water slipping through your fingers."
"And you pride yourself on being careful?" she asked, her tone sharp.
He picked up the dagger, spinning it lazily between his fingers. "Careful enough," he said. "Careful enough to know when to support you, for instance. Careful enough to know what I stand to gain by placing the Pickette in your hands."
Daenys bristled, but she didn't rise to the bait. "And what do you gain, Lexin?"
Lexin paused, the dagger spinning to a halt as he caught it by the hilt. "Leverage," he said simply. "You see, Gahkar Daenys, the Pickette is not a gift. It's a tether. As long as you hold it, you'll owe me. You'll owe all of us who voted in your favor. And the moment you forget that..." He let the dagger fall, the blade sinking into the stone with a soft thunk. "Well. I'm sure you can imagine."
Daenys' jaw tightened, her grip on the parapet turning white-knuckled. "You think you can control me."
"I don't need to control you," Lexin said smoothly, leaning closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "I just need to remind you that nothing you've gained tonight came without a price. And that price, my dear Daenys, is loyalty."
"To you?" she asked, her voice steady despite the chill creeping up her spine.
"To Estil," he replied, his smile widening again. "To the Gahkar. To the Court. To the game. You may think you've risen above it, but the truth is, you're only just beginning to play."
Daenys met his gaze, her amethyst eyes burning with defiance. "I didn't come here to play games, Lexin."
"No," he agreed, his tone almost pitying. "But the game doesn't care what you want. It will play you, whether you like it or not. The question is whether you'll survive long enough to learn the rules."
He straightened, smoothing his cloak as if nothing had happened. "I'll leave you to your brooding now," he said lightly, turning toward the stairs. "But do think about what I've said. You're sharp, Daenys. I'd hate to see you dulled by... idealism."
She watched him go, the storm swallowing him as he descended the stairs, his words lingering like the taste of poison. Daenys turned back to the horizon, her mind racing. She'd won the Pickette, but Lexin's dagger was a reminder that victory was never clean. There were strings tied to every decision, and she could feel them pulling tighter.
The scar on her chest throbbed again, and she pressed a hand to it, her resolve hardening. Let Lexin play his games. Let him press his dagger where he thought the blood would flow.
She would not be the one to bleed.
As Lexin's silhouette disappeared into the violet mist of the Lunar Storms, Daenys remained by the gate, her fingers brushing the cold, uneven stone. She felt her body stiffen as the unsettling nature of the conversation sank deeper into her mind. Lexin had been cryptic yet purposeful, his words like blades disguised as whispers. He had asked for nothing outright, but the weight of his intentions clung to her like a shroud.
The air tasted bitter. Not from the Lunar Storms or the sharpness of the mountain winds, but from something inside her—a gnawing resentment, not for Lexin but for the man who had betrayed her tonight. Nirme.
She turned and began walking back to her tent, her steps deliberate, her robes dragging slightly against the dirt. The weight in her chest felt different now. It was no longer the raw ache of combat or the exhaustion of victory. It was something deeper, more personal, and it simmered like an ember in her mind.
Nirme had not stood with her. When it mattered most, when she needed his guidance and his support, he had stepped back and let her fend for herself. The Old Wolf had abandoned his cub.
The thought stabbed at her pride, but more than that, it stung her heart. Nirme had been the one to see her potential when others dismissed her. He had pulled her from obscurity, taught her how to lead, how to fight, and how to think like a Gahkar. He had raised her up, and now, at the moment she thought she had proven herself worthy, he had turned away.
She reached her tent and ducked inside, Tengri standing silent at the entrance. Alone, she sank into her chair, the weight of the day settling over her like a mantle. The scar on her chest pulsed faintly, a reminder of her mortality, her vulnerability. She closed her eyes and leaned back, her hand absently brushing against the edge of the table.
Her mind churned. She could not deny the pragmatism of Nirme's decision. She understood the need for balance among the Gahkar, the delicate threads that held Estil together. Supporting her might have seemed too great a risk, too bold a gamble. His withdrawal had likely soothed the others, preventing them from seeing her rise as a threat. It was a move born of experience, of strategy, and in some twisted way, she could even admire it.
But it hurt. Gods, it hurt.
She had wanted his approval. More than the title, more than the Pickette, she had wanted to see him nod, to see the faintest flicker of pride in his eyes. Instead, he had treated her like a pawn, as though she were nothing more than a tool to shape the raid. Her jaw clenched, and for a moment, her anger flared, hot and sharp.
Yet as the storm of her thoughts raged, a quieter voice began to rise within her. A voice she had almost forgotten in the chaos of her new life.
Her father's voice.
The real one.
Her memories of him were hazy now, blurred at the edges by time and war, but certain moments stood out with crystalline clarity. The way he had knelt beside her when she scraped her knee climbing the village wall, his hands rough but gentle as he wiped the dirt away. The way he had laughed, deep and hearty, when she told him she would one day be a warrior, not a farmer. The way his eyes had shone with pride when she stood up to the village elder, her voice trembling but firm, defending her brother from punishment.
He had believed in her. Not as a warrior or a Gahkar, but as Daenys. His daughter. His blood.
Nirme had taught her how to lead armies, but her father had taught her how to stand tall, how to face the world without flinching. He had given her something no warlord, no strategist, no god could ever replace. He had given her the foundation of who she was.
And in that moment, sitting alone in her tent, Daenys felt a strange sense of clarity. Nirme had been a guide, a teacher, perhaps even a father figure in some ways. But he wasn't her father. He had never truly seen her—not the way her father had.
Her anger began to ebb, replaced by something colder, sharper. If Nirme wanted to play the part of the Old Wolf, guiding the pack from a distance, then so be it. She would not beg for his approval. She would not seek his pride. She would take what she had learned from him and move forward on her own terms.
But her father... he would always be with her. His lessons, his love, his belief in her—they were woven into the fabric of her being. And in that, she found strength.
Daenys opened her eyes, her fingers tightening around the edge of the chair. The path ahead was clear, if perilous. The Pickette was hers now, and with it came responsibility, power, and enemies. Lexin's words still lingered in her mind, a reminder that she would need to navigate the games of the Gahkar with caution. But she would not falter.
Her father had always told her, "Daenys, you don't need anyone to give you permission to be great. You were born for it."
And now, for the first time, she believed it.
As the Lunar Storms howled outside, Daenys rose from her seat. The ember inside her had not gone out—it had ignited into a flame. She would take the Pickette, she would protect her people, and she would save Akash. She would do it not for the approval of Nirme or the Gahkar, but because it was what her father would have wanted. Because it was who she was.
Daenys Godren, Gahkar of the Accepted, Warden of the North.
And no one—not Nirme, not Lexin, not even the gods—would take that from her. Now they just needed to win the Pickette.