The village still stood, but it was a hollow shell of what it once was. Some houses remained intact, their walls marked only by scorch stains. Others had been reduced to charred skeletons, victims of either betrayal or resistance. Commander Ryker rode through the dirt-packed streets, his men fanning out behind him, scanning for signs of rebellion—or potential.
A lingering tension hung in the air. Women and the elderly watched from doorways, their faces pinched with fear, while children lingered in the shadows, dirty and hollow-eyed. This village, like so many others, had learned the cost of harboring traitors.
Ryker pulled his horse to a halt near the square, where the remains of the gallows stood like a warning. The rebellion had been crushed here, and yet its embers remained. That's what he was here for—not to snuff them out, but to shape them into something useful.
He dismounted, gesturing to his men. "Search the square. Round up the orphans."
The soldiers moved quickly, their boots stirring up the dust and ashes of the executions. Children were herded together near the edge of the square, a ragged, trembling group. Most were too weak to resist—scrawny, tear-streaked, their gazes darting fearfully between the soldiers.
Ryker surveyed them with a critical eye. He wasn't looking for survivors; he was looking for something far rarer. Strength. Cunning. Fierce determination. Intelligence.
So far, he saw none of it.
And then, he saw her.
---
She stood apart from the others, her frame wiry and malnourished but taut with tension. Her face was streaked with dirt, her hair tangled and uneven, but her eyes… her eyes burned. She wasn't crying like the others, wasn't cowering. She stood tall, her fists clenched at her sides, her gaze locked on the soldiers with something close to contempt.
"Her," Ryker said, his voice cutting through the noise.
The girl didn't wait for them to approach. As one soldier stepped toward her, she moved first, darting low and fast. Her hand closed around a shard of broken pottery, and she spun to face them, the jagged edge raised. Her stance was precise, calculated—less like a desperate child and more like a cornered predator.
Ryker held up a hand. "Stop."
The soldiers froze, glancing between the girl and their commander.
"Stand down," Ryker said. He stepped forward slowly, his boots crunching on debris. The girl's eyes flicked to him, her grip on the shard tightening.
"Smart," he murmured. "You know you can't win, but you're ready to fight anyway. Strength. Cunning. You've got both. But do you have more than that?"
The girl didn't respond. She couldn't, Ryker realized. Her lips moved soundlessly, and then he saw the scar—ragged, ugly, running across her throat where her tongue had been cut.
His expression hardened. "Your tongue. Let me guess—they were looking for someone. Your parents? And you wouldn't tell them where."
Her eyes narrowed, her breathing steady despite the tension in her body. It wasn't fear that kept her rooted in place. It was rage.
Ryker let out a low whistle, shaking his head. "The kind of punishment they reserved for traitors' children. They thought they could silence you. But here you are."
The girl shifted her weight, her knuckles whitening. For a moment, Ryker thought she might lunge at him, and his hand moved instinctively to his sword. But then she lowered the shard, though her stance remained rigid, defiant.
"Good," Ryker said softly. "That's good. But there's more to survival than defiance. I'm not here to take your life—I'm here to give you a chance. Fight for me, and you'll never have to cower again."
Her gaze remained locked on him, unblinking. Then, slowly, she stepped forward.
Ryker nodded, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "You'll do."
---
As they moved to leave the village, Ryker glanced back at the girl. She sat stiffly on the horse behind one of his men, her hands clutching the saddle, her sharp eyes scanning everything around her.
The other children they'd gathered huddled together, trembling and quiet, but not her. She studied the soldiers, the trees, the road ahead—like she was already plotting her next move.
"She's not like the others," one of his men muttered, riding up beside him.
"No," Ryker said, his tone thoughtful. "She's not."
He didn't know her name yet. Names didn't matter—names could be stripped away. What mattered was the fire he'd seen in her, the potential to become something far more dangerous than any rebel.
The village disappeared behind them, but Ryker's mind lingered on the girl.
"Mark my words," he muttered under his breath, "this one's going to survive."
---