The stench of blood and sweat was a familiar perfume. 

It clung to my armor, seeped into my skin, a constant reminder of the life I'd carved out for myself. 

A life far removed from the gilded cages and silken whispers of the nobility I was born into, then promptly discarded from.

They called me "Wraith." Not a name, really, more of a title. 

A whispered curse on the battlefield. 

The undefeated knight of the Eastern Marches. 

The one who left no survivors. 

Few knew my real name, and even fewer knew the truth: Wraith was a woman.

It was a secret I guarded more fiercely than any treasure. 

In this world, a woman on the battlefield was an anomaly, a weakness to be exploited. 

So, I became Wraith. 

Ruthless. 

Unstoppable. 

Untouchable.

Or so I thought.

The summons arrived not with the fanfare of trumpets or the dignity of a royal herald, but with the quiet menace of a viper slithering into my tent. 

A single, sealed scroll, bearing the crest of House Veridian. 

My mother's house. 

The house that had cast me out before I could even walk, deeming me a stain on their pristine lineage.

My gut twisted. 

This wasn't a request. 

It was a command. 

And House Veridian never commanded anything good.

I broke the seal, the wax cracking with a sharp snap that echoed the unease in my heart. 

The script was elegant, precise, the handwriting of a woman who valued control above all else. 

My mother, Lady Isolde Veridian.

"To the Bastard Daughter I Never Acknowledged," it began. 

No warmth, no pretense of affection. 

Straight to the point, just like her.

"Your… unique skills are required. Return to Veridian Manor immediately. Failure to comply will result in the… unfortunate dissemination of certain truths regarding your current occupation. Consider this your only warning."

My fingers tightened around the parchment, crumpling the edges. 

Blackmail. 

Of course. 

What else could I expect from the woman who had treated me like a dirty secret my entire life?

Dissemination of truths? She meant exposing me. 

Revealing that Wraith, the terror of the Eastern Marches, was nothing more than a woman. 

A disgraced, illegitimate daughter of a noble house. 

It would be the end of everything I'd built. 

My reputation, my freedom, my very survival.

I'd spent years perfecting the art of war, honing my body into a weapon, my mind into a steel trap. 

I'd faced down hordes of enemies, stared death in the face countless times, and never flinched. 

But this… this was a different kind of battle. 

One fought not with swords and shields, but with whispers and secrets.

And I was already at a disadvantage.

I glanced around my tent. 

Spartan, functional. 

A cot, a weapons rack, a worn map of the borderlands. 

My world. 

A world that was about to be ripped away from me.

There was no choice, really. 

I could defy her, let her expose me, and watch everything I'd worked for crumble to dust. 

Or I could play her game. 

For now.

A bitter smile touched my lips. 

Lady Isolde thought she had me cornered. 

She thought she could control me with threats. 

She didn't know who she was dealing with.

I was Wraith. 

I didn't surrender. 

I adapted. 

I survived.

And I always, always, found a way to win. 

Even if it meant walking straight into the viper's nest.

Even if it meant returning to the place, and the mother, that I hated.

I had a feeling that this was going to be more dangerous than any battlefield.

—--

I started to pack.

My hands moved with practiced efficiency, folding the roughspun tunic, coiling the leather straps of my bracers. 

Each item was a piece of my identity, a testament to the life I'd chosen. 

A life of constant vigilance, of brutal honesty, where a single mistake could mean death.

As I packed, a treacherous thought slithered into my mind

Run?

The Western Lands. 

A vast, untamed territory, a haven for outcasts, mercenaries, and those who lived beyond the reach of kings and their laws. 

I could disappear there. 

Become someone else. 

Another name, another legend forged in blood and steel. 

Wraith could vanish, replaced by… who? 

It didn't matter. 

Life wouldn't change much. 

Still on the edge, still fighting, still killing. 

Just under a different banner, a different moniker.

The idea was tempting. 

To shed the weight of my past, to escape the suffocating grip of House Veridian, to finally be free of the woman who had haunted my nightmares since childhood. 

To be a traitor, an outcast, a mercenary...it was almost appealing.

But even as the thought took root, a deeper, more primal fire ignited within me. 

A cold, burning hatred that had simmered beneath the surface for years, carefully banked, almost forgotten. 

Almost.

This letter… this summons… it was like pouring oil onto those dying embers. 

My mother, Lady Isolde, had deliberately fanned the flames of my resentment, rekindling a rage I thought I'd mastered. 

She had reminded me of the injustice, the pain, the sheer wrongness of my existence.

If she had left me alone, perhaps I could have continued to ignore it. 

Perhaps the bitterness would have faded with time, replaced by the grim realities of my chosen profession. 

But she hadn't. 

She had reached out, not with kindness or regret, but with a threat. 

And in doing so, she had sealed her own fate.

The thought of running, of escaping, evaporated like mist in the morning sun. 

It was replaced by a single, consuming purpose.

Vengeance.

I would return to Veridian Manor. 

I would obey her summons, play the dutiful daughter, for now. 

But I would not be her pawn. 

I would be her undoing.

I would learn her secrets, expose her weaknesses, and dismantle the carefully constructed façade she had built around herself. 

I would watch her world crumble, just as she had tried to destroy mine.

The image of her face, cold and imperious, flashed in my mind. 

The disdain in her eyes, the dismissive curl of her lip. 

The memory fueled the fire within me, turning it into a raging inferno.

My eyes, usually the steely grey of a winter sky, now burned with a fierce, almost blinding light. 

It was the light of pure, unadulterated vengeance. 

A promise of retribution.

I finished packing, the movements sharp and decisive. 

The bag was heavier now, not just with the weight of my belongings, but with the weight of my resolve.

I was no longer just Wraith, the feared knight. 

I was something more. 

Something far more dangerous.

I was a daughter scorned, returning home to collect a debt long overdue. 

And Lady Isolde Veridian would pay. 

She would pay dearly.

This was not just about survival anymore.

This was personal.