The cold winds howled through the mountain pass as the procession moved forward, torches flickering against the night. The banners of House Eldrin snapped in the air, the sigil of a silver hawk emblazoned against deep crimson. Annabelle Jane trudged ahead, her wrists bound in iron, her torn dress barely shielding her from the chill.
She did not cry. She did not beg.
Her father rode beside her, regal in his silver-trimmed cloak, his expression carved from stone. Her mother was absent—she had refused to witness the disgrace of a daughter unfit for nobility. The knights and servants averted their gazes, pretending this was not a death march.
A noble daughter should have been a prize, a delicate thing of beauty and grace. But Annabelle had been born wrong. Her right arm was a thing of blackened chitin, hardened like the carapace of some abyssal creature. The moment it had begun to form in childhood, the whispers had started. Cursed. Touched by demons. An abomination.
She had known this day would come.
At the edge of the cliffside, the guards forced her to her knees. Below, the abyss stretched into darkness, an ancient chasm where only beasts and the forsaken lurked. A fitting grave.
Her father dismounted, stepping forward. "You were born of my blood," he said, voice even. "And for that, I offer you this mercy. No blade. No fire. Only the fall. Whatever gods remain, let them take pity on you."
Annabelle looked up, meeting his gaze. There was no anger in her eyes, no pleading. Only something cold. Something waiting.
She smiled.
Then the guards shoved her, and she plummeted into the void.
She awoke in darkness.
The pain was immense—bones shattered, body broken—but she was alive. The abyss had not claimed her.
A presence moved in the shadows. Massive, hulking, eyes burning like embers in the black. A voice, deep as the world's end, rumbled through her mind.
"Child of betrayal. Daughter of ruin. Rise."
And so, Annabelle Jane did.