The sun bled into the horizon, staining the sand with gold and crimson as the girl stood before the iron gates of her fate. She was fourteen—tall for her age but small in presence, a shadow cast by the two knights who flanked her.
The general watched from the steps of his grand estate, arms crossed over his chest, his expression unreadable. "This is the girl?" His voice was a blade, cutting through the thick desert air.
One of the knights nodded. "Nyx of House Valeria. The last one."
The girl swallowed, gripping the strap of the satchel slung over her shoulder. Inside, she carried everything that remained of her family—her brother's bow, a single change of clothes, and a dagger far too dull to be of any real use.
The general stepped forward, towering over her. His presence was suffocating. Cold eyes swept over her form, assessing, calculating. Then, with a smirk that sent a ripple of unease down her spine, he turned away.
"Bring her in."
The knights obeyed, ushering her through the gates, through the threshold of her new prison.
The estate was vast, a palace in its own right, but there was nothing warm about it. The walls were carved from dark stone, the torches casting long shadows that danced like specters. She was led through winding corridors until they reached a heavy wooden door. The general pushed it open, revealing a modest room—bare save for a cot, a basin, and a trunk at the foot of the bed.
"This is where you'll stay," he said. "For now."
She frowned, confusion flickering across her face. "For now?"
His smirk deepened. "Until you earn something better."
She didn't know what he meant then. Not fully. But she would learn. Gods, she would learn.
The first lesson was obedience.
"You will listen," Rathos had told her that night. "Or you will break."
The second lesson was about silence.
"You will not cry," he warned, after she had made the mistake of flinching when he ran a hand through her hair. "Weakness invites cruelty."
The third lesson was survival.
The first time she bled beneath his hand, Nyx bit her tongue so hard she tasted iron. She was not weak. She was not a child. She was not going to cry.
He taught her to fight. To wield a bow with the precision of a hunter. To move like a shadow. To kill without hesitation.
But he did not train her to be his soldier.
He trained her to be his successor. His property. His wife.
The word made her stomach twist. She was fourteen. He did not care.
The first time he pressed a hand against her back, possessive, lingering, she told herself it was nothing. The first time his fingers traced her jaw, she swallowed the bile that rose in her throat. The first time he called her his, she did not react at all.
Because reacting meant giving him power.
For four years, she became his shadow. His most prized possession. His secret weapon. The girl who burned from the inside out but never let the fire show.
Until the day she did.
Until the day she held the knife in her hand and smiled as she drove it deep into his throat.
The world thought General Rathos had died in battle. That was the story the kingdom believed.
But Nyx knew the truth.
She had been his heir. His slave. His creation.
Now, she was his executioner.
And one day, she would burn this entire kingdom down.