Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"The cursed blade shall drink once more,
The blood of those long lost to lore.
Born of magic, bound by fate,
A shattered soul, a kingdom's weight.
Peace may bloom, yet blood she'll crave,
The harbinger of the dark and grave.”

The walls of the castle had never felt taller.

Lena stood at the tall, arched window, her fingers lightly pressing against the cold, weathered glass as she gazed down at the training yard below. The courtyard was a flurry of movement, the harsh clang of steel ringing through the air as soldiers sparred under the bright afternoon sun. Their swords flashed in a synchronized dance, each strike sharp and precise, each footfall echoing in a rhythm she had long since memorized in her mind’s eye.

She could see every motion, every calculated step. The way the soldiers pivoted on their toes, shifting their weight with the fluidity of well-rehearsed instinct. The sharp, practiced angles of their blades, the slashes that cut through the air with deadly accuracy, and the swift parries that followed like shadows. She had watched them enough to know the pattern of each fight, each maneuver. The way a soldier would shift into a defensive stance after an attack, the subtle turn of their wrist when making a feint.

She had never been allowed to join them, never given the freedom to stand alongside them and prove herself. Her father’s orders were clear: a princess does not fight. But Lena had watched, day after day, from behind the high castle walls—quiet, hidden, absorbing their movements, their discipline.

Despite the barriers keeping her away from the training grounds, her body remembered what her mind had absorbed. Every night, in the solitude of her chambers, she would practice in the shadows, mimicking their movements with the blade she’d secretly acquired. Her body flowed with the same precision, as if the very rhythm of the sparring sessions had been etched into her muscles. But it was never enough. She could never be seen—never be allowed to fight in the open.

Still, she held on to the dream that one day she would walk into that yard and prove herself—not as a pawn in a game of politics, but as someone capable of holding a sword, of commanding her own fate.

The weight of the castle pressed heavily upon Lena, its imposing grandeur no longer a symbol of power, but a suffocating cage. The cold, polished marble floors stretched endlessly before her, a constant reminder of the endless confines that she could never escape. The corridors, though magnificent, seemed to stretch for miles, winding in labyrinthine paths that led nowhere but deeper into the heart of her isolation. Golden-threaded banners fluttered in the drafts, their opulence a stark contrast to the emptiness she felt each day. All of it—designed to impress, to awe—did nothing but trap her in a gilded prison, where her every movement was watched, every decision dictated by someone else.

Outside, the kingdom was shifting. Whispers of unrest had begun to stir, creeping through the streets like an ill wind, carrying the scent of rebellion that could no longer be ignored. The common folk were angry, the nobles restless, and the murmur of war from neighboring kingdoms had grown louder with each passing day. Rival nations circled like hungry vultures, their spies and emissaries prowling the borders, waiting for a moment of weakness to strike. The kingdom, once mighty, was unraveling at the seams—and Lena, the princess, was a silent witness to it all.

Her father, King Luthor, claimed to be keeping her safe, shielding her from the dangers outside the walls. But Lena knew the truth—he was protecting his bargaining chip. To him, she was nothing more than a pawn in a game that stretched far beyond the kingdom’s borders. Wrapped in layers of security, her every movement monitored and restricted, she was confined not just by the castle’s stone walls, but by the prison of her father’s ambition.

The thought of it gnawed at her—the kingdom’s slow disintegration, her own life slipping further out of her control.

She turned from the window, frustration simmering beneath her composed exterior. The king called it "safety." She called it a prison.

Lena hadn’t set foot beyond the castle walls in years, not once since her father had deemed it “unsafe” for her to venture outside. The kingdom had changed, but she had been kept inside, wrapped in layers of restriction. The world beyond those walls had become a blur—one she could only glimpse from her prison window, her longing for it growing with each passing day.

Instead, her time was consumed by duties. Mornings were spent in diplomatic lessons, where tutors lectured on the complex web of alliances, trade agreements, and the politics that would one day bind her to a foreign prince or king. Afternoons were filled with political theory, a never-ending stream of discussions about power, governance, and the delicate balance between nations. The evenings were reserved for history readings, long hours spent memorizing the rise and fall of empires, the tactics of war, and the strategies of rulers past—all to prepare her for her eventual role as a piece in a much larger game.

It was a future she had no choice but to accept—to be married off to a man of her father’s choosing, her identity reduced to that of a pawn, with her only value lying in her ability to secure political leverage. But as the days passed, Lena felt that role slipping further out of her grasp. She had no desire to be a mere bargaining chip.

When the tutors and the scholars left, the castle’s quiet echoing through its stone halls, Lena found her escape. It wasn’t in books or lectures anymore—it was in the shadows, where no one could see. Her real education came not from the palace’s polished teachings, but from her own pursuit of knowledge. When night fell, she would slip away from her chambers, unnoticed, into the dark corners of the castle where she could practice swordplay in solitude. She mimicked the movements of the guards she had watched for so long, silently honing the skills she knew her father would never allow her to use. The training ground was locked away from her, but in the quiet darkness of her hidden room, Lena could finally feel in control of something—anything.

Hidden away in the solitude of her chambers, Lena moved with purpose, her sword cutting through the still air, its edge whispering a quiet challenge. Each strike was a silent rebellion, a defiance against the walls that confined her. The movements she had stolen from the soldiers—subtle glances, fleeting moments of observation—had become her secret language. With every swing of the blade, her body grew more fluid, more instinctive. She mimicked their stances, their footwork, the precise, controlled aggression of their strikes. The rhythm of the sword in her hand was no longer foreign; it was a part of her now, a familiar extension of her will.

Each motion felt more natural than the last, her muscles remembering what her mind had been forced to suppress—the knowledge that she was meant for more than silk dresses and hollow smiles. She was capable of far more than the life her father had mapped out for her, than the quiet life of a marriageable princess. The sword, in her hands, was proof of that.

But despite her growing skill, despite the sense of power and control that filled her when she practiced, Lena knew that her father would never see her as anything but a pawn in the kingdom’s larger game. Their conversations were brief, his words as clipped as the movements of his courtiers. Every exchange was about strategy, alliances, and kingdoms—never about her, never about what she wanted or who she was becoming.

He did not see her as a warrior, a leader, or even as a daughter. To him she was only a tool to cement power. The cold, transactional nature of their relationship gnawed at her. She was a means to an end, a stepping stone for his ambitions, and nothing more. Despite the hours spent training, despite her growing expertise, she could never seem to break through the walls he had built between them.

He saw a bargaining piece.

And she was tired of it.

—----------------------

The grand hall of the castle was a riot of colors and sounds, a spectacle in itself. The laughter of nobles echoed off the high stone walls, mingling with the clink of silver goblets and the murmur of hushed conversations. The rich scent of roasted meats, fragrant herbs, and baked pastries filled the air, tempting the senses of every guest present. The long tables were laden with platters of delicacies, and golden chalices gleamed in the soft glow of flickering candlelight. It was a scene of opulence, a feast that had been held every decade since Lena could remember, marking the kingdom’s grandeur and prosperity.

The room was magnificent, as always. Towering stained-glass windows stretched up to the vaulted ceiling, casting brilliant hues of red, blue, and gold across the stone floor as the afternoon light streamed through them. Ornate chandeliers hung above, their crystal pendants shimmering with every shift of movement, casting a warm, golden glow that bathed the entire hall in a regal light. The intricate tapestries that adorned the walls depicted scenes of past victories, battles won and enemies vanquished, all reminders of the kingdom’s power.

The kingdom had been preparing for months for the grand tournament, a monumental event held once every ten years that drew warriors from every corner of the realm. It was a spectacle like no other—banners flying high, crowds roaring in anticipation, and the clash of steel echoing through the air. The excitement was palpable, a charged current that ran through the streets, the castle, and the very heart of the kingdom. Nobles and knights whispered eagerly about the glory that awaited the victor, their eyes gleaming with the promise of fame and riches. For most, it was an opportunity to prove their strength, their skill, and their worth. It was a chance to rise through the ranks, to secure their place among the kingdom’s elite, perhaps even earn a title or land.

But for Lena, it was something entirely different. While the tournament was a grand occasion for everyone else, for her, it was just another reminder of how little control she had over her own destiny. She had watched from the sidelines as men trained in the yard, vying for a spot in the competition, but she knew that no matter how skilled she became with a sword, no matter how fiercely she longed for freedom, she would never be allowed to fight. The tournament was for the men, for the warriors, for those who could rise and prove themselves on the field.

The King rose from his seat at the head of the table, his imposing figure casting a long shadow over the gathered guests. The murmurs of the crowd hushed in an instant, his deep, commanding voice cutting through the chatter like a blade. His eyes, sharp and calculating, glinted with excitement, as though he were preparing to reveal some monumental victory, a triumph that would secure his place in history.

He raised a goblet in his hand, its polished surface catching the light, and the crowd fell silent, hanging on his every word.

"Tonight," the King began, his voice steady and rich with authority, "we celebrate not only our kingdom’s strength, but the future of our realm." His words carried the weight of centuries, as though the fate of the entire kingdom rested on the air between them. He paused, giving the room time to settle, the moment drawn out for maximum effect. The anticipation in the air was thick—everyone knew something important was coming.

Lena’s heart skipped a beat. She could feel it, that subtle shift, as if the very atmosphere had changed. A sense of dread settled in her chest, creeping like tendrils through her veins, tightening her lungs. It was a familiar feeling, one she had learned to recognize over the years: the unease that always accompanied her father’s decisions, his announcements that were never as simple as they seemed.

Her breath caught in her throat, and for a moment, it felt as if the entire room was holding its breath alongside her, waiting for the storm to break. The air felt thicker now, charged with something that made Lena’s skin prickle, a sense of inevitability closing in around her. Every eye in the hall seemed to be locked on the King, the weight of their gaze pressing down as her father’s words hung in the air like a guillotine waiting to fall.

The King continued, his voice unwavering and coldly triumphant, "The winner of the tournament, will not only claim gold and glory,” he paused for effect, gesturing at Lena, “but the hand of my daughter, Princess Lena, in marriage." 

The words felt like a slap, cold and sharp. Lena’s world tilted, the floor beneath her feet seeming to shift in an instant. The room erupted in shocked gasps, whispers swelling like a rising tide. She could barely hear them, the sound of her own blood roaring in her ears, drowning out the noise around her. The words echoed through the hall, reverberating off the stone walls and settling heavy in the air. For a moment, time seemed to freeze, the flickering candlelight casting long, exaggerated shadows that stretched across the floor and up the walls, distorting the faces of the onlookers. The atmosphere was thick, electric—charged with an energy that was both exhilarating and suffocating.

Marriage. Her marriage, the one thing she had fought so hard to control, was being reduced to a prize. The thought of it twisted her stomach in knots, her fists clenching at her sides as she fought to keep the anger and humiliation from bursting to the surface.

For the first time in years, she felt utterly trapped, suffocated by the very walls she had once called home.

Lena’s breath caught in her throat, her pulse quickening as she felt the weight of her father’s proclamation press down on her chest. She looked around the room, her eyes darting from face to face, desperate to find something, anything, to ground her. The nobles, their finely dressed figures shimmering in the golden light, all turned their gazes toward her. The knights, those who would fight in the tournament, exchanged eager glances, their eyes gleaming with an almost predatory excitement at the thought of winning her hand. The lords, too, their smiles wide and calculated, seemed pleased by the announcement, though it felt more like a cold evaluation than genuine joy.

Each one, it seemed, was already envisioning her as little more than a prize to be claimed, a piece of the kingdom to be won. The thought made her stomach turn. She, the daughter of the king, had been reduced to a mere object to be won, her future no longer hers to control, but decided by a tournament of men.

A tournament she would never be allowed to compete in. A tournament where her worth was determined by the winner’s sword, not her own skill or ability. The realization hit her, and for the first time, she felt utterly powerless.

The hall erupted into cheers—shouts of excitement, applause, and congratulations. To them, it was a cause for celebration, the thrill of a new contest, a new power play. The air seemed to vibrate with the buzz of victory already felt in the hearts of the noblemen who were already imagining themselves in possession of her. But to Lena, it was humiliation. Every cheer felt like a slap against her, every clink of goblets a reminder of how little her life mattered beyond the power of her marriage.

She clenched her fists beneath the table, her nails digging into her palms as the blood rushed to her face, burning with rage and shame. The betrayal stung deeper than she had anticipated. She had spent her whole life under her father’s roof, obedient and silent, but never once had she imagined he would do this to her. She hadn’t even been consulted. Not a single word. She wasn’t asked what she wanted, what she dreamed of, what she had hoped for. Instead, she was simply given away, to be claimed by whoever could wield a sword the best.

As the room buzzed with excitement, Lena’s body trembled with fury, the suffocating weight of the moment pushing her past the point of endurance. She stood abruptly, the sound of her chair scraping loudly against the cold, stone floor cutting through the cacophony like a dagger. The room fell into an uneasy silence as all eyes snapped toward her, their gazes shifting from curiosity to confusion, to something darker, something almost expectant.

Lena could feel the anger building in her chest, bubbling to the surface. She couldn’t stay here, couldn’t be part of this charade any longer. Without thinking, she pushed her way past the servants, through the aisles of guests, and toward the grand doors of the hall, desperate to escape. She didn’t know where she was going—she just needed to be anywhere else.

She yanked the door open and all but ran out of the hall. She felt a heavy hand grip her shoulder. Her father’s presence loomed behind her like a dark cloud.

"Lena," he said, his voice cold and authoritative, his gaze unwavering as it met hers. "This is your duty. You are not here to make decisions. Your role is to strengthen this kingdom, to ensure our alliances and secure our future." His words were sharp, calculated—a reminder of the role he had defined for her from the moment she was born. They were chains, invisible but suffocating, wrapping tighter around her throat with each syllable.

Lena's pulse hammered in her temples, her hands trembling at her sides as the weight of his words crashed over her. Her chest tightened, and for a moment, she felt herself falter. But then the anger flared, hot and sudden, a spark that quickly spread into a full flame.

She spun around, her eyes flashing with fury, her breath shallow as she faced him. "My duty?" she spat, her voice low and tremulous, but heavy with restrained rage. "I am not some prize to be given away for a tournament!" The words tore from her mouth before she could stop them, each one feeling like a liberation from the suffocating control he had exerted over her life. "You never even asked me what I want! You’ve already decided my future for me—as if I’m just a tool to be used!"

The words hung in the air, raw and jagged. Lena knew she had crossed a line, but she could no longer bear to be silent.

Her father’s gaze hardened, his expression unyielding. "This is what’s best for the kingdom," he said, his tone dismissive. "What’s best for you? You will marry a man of strength, a man who will bring honor to our name! You will do your part for the greater good!"

Lena's chest tightened, the walls closing in. "I’m not a piece of property to be traded," her voice cracking under the weight of her frustration. But her father merely turned away, as if the matter was settled.

"You’ll understand in time," he said without looking back, his words cold and final.

She stood there, alone, her heart heavy with a betrayal she couldn’t shake. The cheers continued down the hall, muffled by the hall’s doors closing behind her father. They were hollow to her now, the sounds of her future being sold to the highest bidder. Her hands shook at her sides, but she refused to let the tears come.

The moment the heavy doors closed behind her father, Lena felt something within her snap—an invisible tether fraying until it broke entirely. The fury that churned in her chest no longer felt aimless. It had purpose now. She would not be bartered like livestock. She would not be another pawn in her father's game.

That night, while the castle slumbered under a blanket of stars, Lena sat alone in the stillness of her chamber, her mind ablaze. The silence outside was a sharp contrast to the storm within her. The decision came not with hesitation, but with clarity—cold, fierce, and absolute. If the tournament was where her future would be determined, then she would claim a place in it. Not as a prize. Not as a princess.

She would enter the arena as a warrior. On her own terms. For once, her fate would be hers to shape.

—----------------------

She began to craft a plan, each piece fitting together with sharp, dangerous precision. She would enter the tournament—not as Princess Lena, but as a shadow, a warrior cloaked in secrecy and steel. No one could know. Not the guards, not the servants, not even the maids who had dressed her since childhood. Every trace of her identity would have to vanish. She’d need to hide her face, disguise her voice, and unlearn the noble grace she’d carried since birth. Her every movement would have to belong to someone else.

She had trained for this, though no one had taught her. Late at night, when the castle slept and the halls were empty, she had slipped away to the old storage rooms and forgotten courtyards. There, she taught herself. She practiced with rusted blades and blunted staffs stolen from the training yard, mimicking the forms she had observed from windows and shadows. She watched the knights drill for hours during the day, memorizing their stances, their rhythm, their power—and then replicated it in silence, bruising her knuckles and blistering her palms until the movements became muscle memory.

She had no instructor, no one to correct her form or soften her falls. Just instinct, grit, and a simmering fury that had pushed her further than anyone thought a royal girl could go.

But now, theory would not be enough. She needed armor.

Nothing ornate. Nothing regal. It had to be light—built for speed and fluid motion—but strong enough to deflect a strike. It couldn’t draw attention, couldn’t whisper of royalty or wealth. It had to be custom-forged, quiet, matte, with no sigils, no shine. Just black steel, tightly fitted to her frame, masked and hooded so not a flicker of her face would show.

If she was to fight, it would be as no one. A figure out of myth. A ghost conjured in iron and vengeance.

A storm in steel.

At first light, when the castle still slumbered, Lena moved. The world was hushed, cloaked in the deep blue of early dawn, and every shadow seemed to stretch longer, darker, like it might reach out and grab her if she hesitated. She slipped through a hidden servant’s passage concealed behind an old, iron-hinged door at the end of a rarely used hallway. The wood groaned softly as it opened, and she winced, heart pounding.

Her pulse roared in her ears, louder than the whisper of her boots on the cold stone floor. The air in the passage was stale with dust and years of disuse, but she welcomed its quiet. These were corridors built for servants to move unseen—narrow, dim, winding behind the walls like secret veins through the castle’s body. Royalty never walked these paths. That made them perfect.

Lena moved like a ghost, her cloak brushing the stone behind her as she slipped deeper into the underbelly of the castle. Every step felt like trespassing, even though this was her home. But this morning, she wasn’t a princess. She was a trespasser in her own life.

Her breath came in short, shallow bursts, catching in her throat each time the wind shifted or a floorboard groaned in the distance. Every sound felt like a warning. Her hands trembled as they traced along the rough stone walls, grounding her as she followed the winding path she’d memorized in secret. These passages, once a curiosity explored in fleeting moments of rebellion, were now her lifeline.

She hadn’t been beyond the castle walls in years—not truly—and now every step felt like shedding an old skin, stripping away the layers of comfort and confinement that had bound her for so long. It was like learning how to breathe again. How to move.

Her thoughts tangled in her mind like a snare: What if someone saw her? What if the guards stopped her? What if her father learned of this and punished not just her, but everyone who looked the other way? The fear was suffocating. She had walked through fire in her mind a dozen times, rehearsed every moment of this escape—but now that it was real, the danger felt impossibly sharp. She wasn’t just slipping away. She was breaking the rules of a kingdom. And the cost of failure wasn’t exile. It was ruin.

She passed two castle attendants in the east corridor and immediately ducked her head, tugging her soot-stained hood further over her face. The straight-backed grace of royalty had been replaced with a deliberate slouch, her shoulders rounded, her gait uneven. It felt unnatural—wrong—but necessary. Her once-immaculate hair, always brushed to a shine by palace maids, was now knotted and hidden beneath her hood. Dust clung to her hem and streaked her cheeks. One of the attendants glanced her way. Lena’s stomach twisted. She turned her face to the wall and pretended to study a crack in the stone until the pair passed.

Down through the kitchen scullery, through the storage cellar, and out the side servant’s gate—unguarded this early in the morning but still flanked by high stone walls that made her feel like prey slinking through a hunter’s trap. Once beyond the castle grounds, the air hit her like a blow—cool, sharp, and overwhelming. Freedom, but not without fear.

The city unfolded before her like a memory she wasn’t sure belonged to her. Narrow cobbled streets glistened with morning dew, their worn stones slick beneath her boots. The air was cool and damp, carrying the faint scent of hearth smoke and rising bread. Wooden signs creaked on their hinges above shuttered shops, and rows of stone buildings leaned close to one another like old friends sharing secrets. Everything was still—quiet, half-asleep.

Lena paused at the edge of the alley, breath catching in her throat. It had been so long. The last time she walked these streets, she had been a child peering from a guarded carriage window, not a shadow in plain clothes. Now, every corner of the city felt unfamiliar and impossibly alive. Faded murals clung to crumbling walls, their colors worn but defiant. The marketplace—still hushed—showed signs of stirring: a cart being rolled into place, a vendor sweeping the steps of his stall.

For a single, dangerous heartbeat, she almost let herself look. Really look. Almost let herself remember what it felt like to belong to this world instead of hovering just beyond it.

But she didn’t. She couldn’t.

Lena lowered her gaze, tightening her hood as she slipped into the flow of the waking city. Her footsteps quickened, careful not to draw attention. She had no time for wonder, not today. Not when each moment she lingered risked everything.

The forge was near the edge of the lower quarter, just beyond a sloped alley lined with flickering lanterns and cracked pavement. The scent of smoke met her before the glow of the fires did. She pulled her hood tighter and rounded the final corner, heart still pounding, breath still shaky.

She had made it.

But the danger was far from over.

As she passed a group of guards leaning against a stone wall, she held her breath. One of them looked her way—just a flick of the eyes—but didn’t pause. Another laughed at a joke, too distracted to notice the girl with a royal face hidden in shadow.

That was the point.

To vanish.

To become no one.

The weight of her father’s expectations, of court whispers and arranged futures, clung to her like a ghost. But with each muddy footprint she left behind, that ghost grew fainter.

She wasn’t Princess Lena here.

The forge roared with life, a beast of fire and thunder crouched within stone walls. Even from the threshold, Lena felt its breath—waves of searing heat rolling out into the morning chill, licking at her skin and fogging her vision. The clang of metal on metal rang through the air in rhythmic bursts, sharp and unrelenting, like war drums echoing off the stone.

Inside, the place glowed like a dragon’s maw—an inferno at the heart of the castle. Molten sparks burst with every strike of the hammer, casting brief showers of orange light that danced across soot-darkened walls. Iron bars glowed red in the embers, twisted halfway into shapes of armor, swords, and shields. The scent of smoke clung thick in the air, laced with the tang of burning oil and scorched leather. It filled her lungs, heavy and unfamiliar, but she forced herself to breathe it in.

She hesitated at the threshold, her boots crunching on scattered shards of slag. Her eyes flicked to the blacksmiths—broad-shouldered figures drenched in sweat, their faces shadowed by hoods or hidden behind streaks of soot. They moved with practiced purpose, too focused on their craft to notice the cloaked girl frozen in the doorway.

Lena swallowed hard, the knot in her throat rising like a stone. Every instinct screamed for her to turn back, to abandon this madness before it gave her away. But then she stepped forward, one boot over the threshold, then the next. Into the heat. Into the light.

There was no turning back now.

“I need armor,” she said, her voice roughened deliberately, like gravel scraped across stone. She stood before the royal blacksmiths—broad-shouldered men with soot-streaked brows and hard eyes—who barely looked up from their work.

One glanced her way, his lip curling in disdain. “You and every fool with a death wish. Come back when you’ve earned a name.”

“I’ll pay,” Lena said, reaching into her cloak and pulling out a velvet pouch heavy with coins. The clang of a hammer stopped. Another blacksmith looked up—older, grizzled, his face unreadable.

“And who are you, exactly?” he asked, wiping sweat from his brow. “You come in with no house colors, no seal, no introduction. You think we risk our craft on commoners?”

“I just need something light, fast. No crests, no polish. Just steel that holds,” she replied, trying to keep the desperation from her voice.

But they were already shaking their heads.

“No name, no proof, no commission,” the older one said, turning back to his anvil. “We don’t waste iron on ghosts.”

Lena’s hands curled into fists at her sides, her nails digging into her palms. A slow burn of anger ignited in her chest, rising like a tide she couldn’t hold back. Her jaw tightened until her teeth ached, and she turned sharply on her heel, the hem of her cloak snapping behind her. Fury surged through her veins—hot, humiliating, undeniable.

She had risked everything to come here: stripped away her name, cloaked herself in shadows, walked the length of the castle like a ghost just to stand in this place. Every step through the courtyard, every glance avoided, every breath held had been a gamble with her life. And for what?

To be dismissed without a second thought. To be waved off like a wandering beggar with delusions of grandeur.

The weight of it pressed on her chest, the sting of rejection biting deeper than she’d expected. She didn’t know whether to scream or run—but she would do neither. Not yet. She needed to find another way. 

“Wait.”

The voice was quieter than the hammering of steel, yet somehow it sliced clean through the noise like the hiss of a blade meeting water.

Lena froze. The word stopped her mid-step, her heart catching in her throat. From the shadowed edge of the forge, a figure emerged—a girl, no older than Lena herself, with soot-smudged cheeks and a tangle of golden blonde hair pulled hastily into a knot. Her leather apron hung awkwardly off her narrow shoulders, clearly made for someone twice her size, and her hands were blackened with the grime of long hours at the forge.

Before Lena could speak, the girl glanced over her shoulder, then stepped forward and gripped her elbow. “Not here,” she murmured, her voice low and urgent. She tugged gently but insistently, guiding Lena away from the main thoroughfare.

They slipped between two buildings into a narrow alley where the sounds of the forge dulled to a distant hum. Smoke drifted lazily in the air, the scent of hot iron still clinging to their clothes. The girl released Lena’s arm and looked her over—really looked this time, her striking blue eyes narrowing with curiosity and something else Lena couldn’t quite name.

“I heard what you said,” the girl continued, eyes sharp beneath the grime. “And I’ve seen what they haven’t.”

Lena turned slowly, her gaze meeting the apprentice’s. The girl’s eyes flicked to Lena’s hands, and for a brief moment, there was a silence between them. Lena’s fingers were wrapped tightly around the strap of her satchel, and despite her disguise, the soft but strong hands—hands that still carried the elegance of royalty—spoke volumes. They were not the delicate hands of a sheltered princess, but they were still unmistakably graceful, with the quiet strength of someone who had been trained to carry the weight of a crown. Yet, they also showed signs of someone who could hold their own in a fight, with invisible scars and calluses etched into her palms from the hours of silent training each night. 

The girl’s gaze lingered for a moment longer before she met Lena’s eyes again, an unspoken understanding passing between them.

“You’re not just some street fighter,” the girl said quietly. “You don’t walk like one.”

Lena didn't respond right away, but the flicker of something—perhaps the spark of respect—passed between them, a silent acknowledgment of the skill and determination they both shared, despite their differences.

“I’m Kara,” the girl said simply. “And if you’re serious about fighting, I’ll help you.”

Chapter Text

Kara stepped forward slightly, wiping her hands on the hem of her soot-smudged apron, her eyes never leaving Lena’s shadowed face. “Come back tomorrow night,” she said, her voice low and steady. “I’ll need your measurements if I’m going to make you armor that won’t fall apart the moment you take a hit. And we’ll need to talk strategy—figure out how exactly you plan to slip into a noble-only tournament without anyone catching on.”

Her tone was casual, but Lena could see the spark of intrigue behind her words, the way Kara leaned in just slightly, like this was more than just a challenge—it was a thrill. A rebellion.

Lena hesitated. Her fingers fidgeted with the edge of her cloak, her mind racing. But in the end, there was no other way. “Tomorrow,” she said quietly, her voice firm despite the storm inside her.

She turned, her boots barely making a sound on the forge’s soot-streaked floor. As she stepped outside, the cold night air hit her like a wave, sharp and bracing. Her cloak billowed slightly behind her, already heavy with the scent of smoke and steel—a scent that clung to her like a promise.

And then she was gone, swallowed by the noise of the waking city.

She returned to the castle the same way she had left it—through the narrow, winding servants’ passage that twisted behind the grand halls like a hidden artery. The torches along the stone walls had burned low, casting just enough light to guide her steps but not enough to reveal her face. Every creak of the floorboards, every distant murmur of wind through the stone, made her breath catch.

Her heart pounded in her throat as she passed beneath archways and around corners, always listening, always alert. A single misstep, a single waking guard, and everything would unravel. She passed a sleeping steward slumped in a chair by the kitchens and ducked behind a tapestry when she heard soft footsteps echo from the far end of a hallway. But no one saw her. No one called out.

By the time she slipped into her chambers, the sky outside was tinged with soft blue daylight, the sun just beginning to peek over the horizon. Pale light crept across the stone floor, cool and quiet. Her room was exactly as she had left it—immaculate, silent, untouched. She stood there for a long moment in the stillness, letting the breath she’d been holding finally leave her lungs. No alarms. No search parties. No consequences. Not yet.

She had made it back.

But all throughout the next day, Lena could hardly focus. The soft drone of her tutor’s voice faded into a meaningless hum as he lectured on treaties and trade routes. She sat stiffly at her desk, back straight, hands folded just as she’d been taught—but her mind was far from the velvet-draped study.

She was supposed to be memorizing the lineage of foreign houses. Instead, her quill drifted aimlessly, doodling armor patterns and half-formed plans into the margins of her parchment. She nodded at the right moments, repeated her rehearsed lines with perfect enunciation, but none of it stuck. Her thoughts refused to stay tethered.

They kept slipping back to the forge.

To the way Kara looked in the firelight—shadows dancing across her stunning face, a smudge of soot on her cheek she hadn’t noticed. There was something alive in her eyes, something bold and bright and impossible to ignore. Lena shook her head, forcing herself to focus, but it was no use.

Kara kept pulling her back.

The way Kara’s eyes had glinted in the forge’s dying firelight lingered in Lena’s memory like the aftertaste of smoke—sharp, vivid, and impossible to shake. There had been a steadiness in her stance, a quiet confidence that didn’t need to boast. And her voice—god, her voice—low and roughened from soot and steel, had burned with something Lena recognized all too well: hunger. Not for power or glory, but to create something real. To matter.

Lena found herself replaying it—how Kara had stepped closer without hesitation, how she spoke with her hands as much as her words, full of conviction and restlessness. It was distracting.

And dangerous.

With a sharp breath, Lena pushed the thoughts aside. She couldn’t afford this—not now. Not when everything rested on secrecy and precision. This wasn’t the time to dwell on firelit glances or the curl of a grin. This was the time for plans. Strategy.

Distractions would only get her killed.

She needed to focus—there was still so much left to do. 

Step one: Acquire armor. Almost done. Kara still had to forge it, and Lena could already feel the weight of it—both the metal and the freedom it represented. Custom-made, untraceable. No one would suspect a thing.

Step two: Documents. The hardest part, and the one that would take the most finesse. She needed papers that not only claimed noble blood but tied her to a distant province—one far enough from the capital that no one would question her background or ask why they’d never heard of her family. But there was one crucial detail: she would have to be a man. No woman could compete in the tournament. It was a brutal truth, but one she could easily adjust to. With the right disguise and the right story, she could pass for a foreign nobleman. She could already see it: the inked script on parchment, the official seals. But finding someone trustworthy to forge those papers... that was a delicate task. She couldn’t afford to go to just anyone.

Step three: Training. Real training. The stables, the dark corners of the castle, the silent practice with no one but her shadow to spar with—those wouldn’t be enough anymore. She had learned how to fight in the solitude of her own mind, but that wasn’t going to prepare her for the unpredictability of a real opponent. She needed to face someone who could push her to the limit. A sparring partner. Someone skilled enough to challenge her, someone who could teach her the things she couldn’t learn in isolation. Someone who could make her faster, sharper, more lethal. But who could she trust with that secret? And more importantly, could they handle the danger that came with it?

Everything was falling into place, slowly, cautiously. But Lena knew the real work—the dangerous part—was just beginning.

Her stomach twisted. Everything about this plan was reckless. Dangerous. But for the first time in years, the path ahead didn’t feel like a cage.

It felt like freedom.

—----------------------

The forge was hushed—eerily so. Where daylight hours brought a symphony of hammer strikes, the roar of flames, and the hiss of quenched steel, now there was only stillness. The great furnace, though banked low, still pulsed with a dim, steady glow, casting flickering shadows that danced along the soot-caked walls like ghosts of the day’s labor. The smell of iron and ash lingered in the air, sharp and comforting, like the forge itself was holding its breath.

Outside, the city was a void. The clamor of merchants, the rhythm of passing footsteps, even the rustle of market tents—all silenced by the hour. Only the faint hoot of an owl carried on the wind, and the occasional groan of settling wood hinted at any life beyond the walls. It was a sacred kind of quiet—the world wrapped in sleep, unaware of the secrets unfolding beneath its nose.

Lena moved through the side entrance like a shadow, her fingers steadying the door as it clicked softly shut behind her. Every movement was carefully rehearsed. She paused, letting her eyes adjust to the dim light before stepping forward.

Kara was already there, leaning against the anvil, arms crossed over her chest. In the dim light, her golden hair looked almost bronze, catching the last glow of the dying coals.

“No one to overhear us now,” Kara murmured, pushing off the anvil and stepping closer. “Let’s talk.”

Lena exhaled slowly, her breath visible in the cool night air. “If we’re doing this, we need to be careful.”

Kara smirked, tilting her head. “Careful isn’t nearly as fun.”

Lena shot her a look, but there was no malice in it. Just understanding. They had to get this right. Because one wrong move—one whisper in the wrong ear—and everything would come crashing down.

“You’re serious about this,” she murmured, more to herself than to Lena. “You’re really planning to enter the tournament.”

Lena held her ground, back straight despite the weight of doubt pressing at her ribs. “I don’t have a choice.”

Kara’s smirk deepened, her eyes glinting like polished steel. “Then you’re going to need armor that won’t get you killed.”

Lena blinked, momentarily thrown. Of all the responses she’d expected—mockery, skepticism, maybe even outright dismissal—this wasn’t one of them. “You’ll do it?” she asked, voice measured but edged with something dangerously close to hope.

Kara shrugged, tossing a rag over her shoulder. “Why not? It’s a challenge. And I like challenges.” She leaned in slightly, voice lowering conspiratorially. “Besides, the thought of helping an unknown fighter shake up the tournament sounds a lot more exciting than hammering out another breastplate for some pompous noble who won’t even wear it into battle.”

Lena hesitated. Trust did not come easily to her. But she had no other options—no contacts, no way to commission armor without risking exposure. If Kara was willing to help, she couldn’t afford to refuse.

Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that the apprentice wanted something in return.

“Name your price.” Lena asked warily, reaching for the sack of gold tied at her waist.

Kara’s grin widened. “A name”

Lena paused and frowned. “What?”

Kara studied Lena for a long moment, arms crossed over her leather apron, fingers tapping idly against the worn leather. The forge’s glow cast shifting shadows across her face, illuminating the keen intelligence in her gaze. She tilted her head, the hint of a smirk playing on her lips.
Kara eyed Lena curiously in the dim light, the quiet of the forge making her voice feel louder than it was. “You’ve got all these secrets,” she said, stepping around to face her. “But I think it’s time you tell me who’s under that hood.”

Lena raised her hand, her hand twitched near the edge of her hood, but she didn’t lift it. The shadows clung to her face, hiding everything but the sharp set of her jaw and the glint of firelight in her eyes.

Kara didn’t move, didn’t press—just waited.

Lena hesitated, every muscle in her body coiled tight. Her hand hovered near the edge of her hood, then dropped again. The silence stretched, broken only by the soft crackle of coals and the distant creak of cooling metal.

“I’d rather not,” she said quietly. “The less you know, the safer this stays—for both of us.”

Kara crossed her arms, one brow lifting. “Come on. You want me to make you armor, risk my neck—and you won’t even show me your face?”

Lena didn’t answer, just held her ground, the silence heavy between them.

Kara sighed, tilting her head. “Fine. Keep the hood. But at least give me your name. Or something to call you that isn’t ‘hooded mystery girl.’”

Lena stood still, the silence stretching long between them. The fire popped softly in the hearth, its glow casting flickering shadows across her face. Her fingers grazed the edge of her hood again but didn’t pull it back. She couldn’t. Not yet.

Kara watched her, arms crossed, waiting. Not impatient, just curious.

“I’m not trying to pry,” Kara said at last, her voice softer now. “But if we’re going to do this—really do this—I need something to hold onto. A name, at least. Even if it’s not your real one.”

Lena looked down, her boot scraping across the stone floor. A name. Something small, but suddenly it felt impossibly large. Names had power. Hers especially. She’d spent her whole life being addressed like a symbol—princess, heir, daughter of the king. And now?

Now she wanted to be no one.

Still, she knew Kara was right. She had to give her something.

After a long pause, Lena murmured, “Ash.”

Kara blinked. “Ash?”

Lena nodded, eyes still downcast. “It’s what’s left when the fire burns out.”

—----------------------

The forge had settled into a deep stillness, the kind that made every breath feel louder, every heartbeat echo in the silence. Embers glowed like sleeping stars in the furnace, casting a soft, flickering light that gilded the edges of Kara’s silhouette. The air between them felt charged—thick with the weight of the choices they were about to make.

Kara unrolled the length of fabric tape with a practiced flick of her wrist, the soft whisper of it unraveling barely louder than the low crackle of embers glowing in the heart of the forge. The firelight danced across the soot-darkened walls, casting shifting shadows around them as Kara stepped in close. Her eyes were steady, focused, her movements precise—like someone who had done this a hundred times but knew tonight was different.

Lena stood still, the air around them dense with heat and something heavier. Her heart beat a little too fast beneath her ribs, and the closeness between them seemed to pulse with every breath. She kept her eyes ahead, but she could feel Kara—could feel her presence like a brush of smoke across her skin.

“Hold still,” Kara said softly, her voice low and calm, yet threaded with a note of something more. She stepped to Lena’s side and gently guided her arms outward, fingertips brushing her sleeves with quiet care. The tape slid over the curve of her bicep, wrapped around her forearm, glided past her wrist. Kara’s touch was warm and calculated, but each time their fingers met—even in the smallest graze—it sent a flicker of something sharp and electric through Lena’s chest.

Kara didn’t rush. She measured like it mattered, like every number she recorded had weight. And Lena, standing there in the hush of the forge, tried not to think about how intimate it felt—this silence, this nearness, this careful mapping of who she was beneath cloak and shadow.

Then came her legs. Kara knelt without a word, the fabric tape trailing from her fingers like a ribbon of intent. She worked methodically, measuring the length of Lena’s outer thigh, the curve of her calf, the width around her knee. Her hands moved with practiced precision, brushing along the seam of Lena’s trousers, steady and clinical—but Lena felt every point of contact like a spark beneath her skin.

She stared straight ahead, jaw clenched, trying to ignore the heat rising to her cheeks. The silence between them had changed—no longer just quiet, but heavy. Charged.

When Kara stood again, the shift in height made Lena’s breath catch. She moved behind her, and Lena’s muscles tensed instinctively. The tape slid across her shoulders with slow deliberation, Kara’s fingers grazing the fabric over Lena’s collarbone, then down the slope of her back. The touch lingered a moment too long—not unprofessional, not inappropriate, but… deliberate.

Kara didn’t speak, but Lena could feel her presence, close enough that her breath ghosted over the nape of her neck. The forge had never felt so quiet. Lena stared ahead, refusing to turn, afraid that if she met Kara’s eyes, she might forget how to breathe.

When Kara’s hands came around to measure her chest, Lena froze. Her breath caught in her throat, shallow and sharp. The fabric tape settled just beneath her arms, cold against the thin layer of linen between it and her skin. Kara’s hands moved with practiced care, but Lena could still feel the heat of them—gentle pressure just above her ribs, a thumb brushing the edge of her collarbone as she adjusted the fit.

Lena’s heart thundered, and she was sure Kara could hear it.

Neither of them spoke. Kara’s eyes flicked up briefly, unreadable in the low light, and then she stepped back—face composed, but cheeks touched with color.

Then, wordless, she knelt again.

The silence pressed in as Kara guided the tape around Lena’s upper thigh. Lena stiffened, hands clenched at her sides. The tape pulled snug, and Kara’s knuckles brushed the inside of her leg.

 Lena didn’t breathe. She couldn’t. The heat between them was no longer just from the forge.

For a heartbeat—two—neither of them moved. The air seemed to still around them, thick with tension and something unspoken, electric. Even the fire had gone quiet, the coals hissing faintly in the background like the world was waiting for one of them to say something.

But no words came.

Then Kara stood, the fabric tape coiling loosely in her hand. She cleared her throat—soft, almost hesitant—and pulled a bit of charcoal from her apron, scribbling a few quick notes on parchment. Her movements were brisk, but there was a subtle tightness in her shoulders, a quiet tension she didn’t bother masking.

“That’s all,” she said finally, voice low and even, but with a faint roughness at the edges—like embers still smoldering beneath ash.

Lena gave a single nod, unable to find her voice. Her throat felt too tight, her thoughts too loud.

Kara turned without a word, her movements fluid but heavy with the weight of something unspoken. She crossed the forge in a few measured steps and stopped at the anvil, the familiar centerpiece of her world. The fabric tape slipped from her fingers with a soft flutter as she set it down, her motions careful, almost reverent. She reached for a hammer out of habit, curling her fingers around its handle—not to work, but to steady herself. 

She stood there for a beat, shoulders rising and falling with a quiet breath, before speaking.

“The armor should be ready in two weeks or so,” she said, her voice calm, more composed now, though still edged with the rasp of tension. “But come back before that. I’ll need you to try it on—see how it moves, check for weight and balance. We’ll need time to make adjustments, and with the tournament coming up in a month…” She paused, glancing over her shoulder briefly. “We don’t have much time.”

Lena nodded, though Kara still didn’t turn around. The silence between them stretched long and taut, filled with the weight of everything they hadn’t said. It thrummed in the dim light of the forge, thick with heat and the faint scent of ash.

Then, finally, Kara broke it—her voice lighter now, attempting ease.

“So… Ash,” she said, almost playfully, “how much do you actually know about fighting? Or the tournament, for that matter?”

The question drifted between them like smoke curling from an untended flame.

Lena hesitated, her fingers curling tightly into the fabric of her cloak, knuckles pale beneath the dim firelight.
“I’ve… watched the royal guards train,” she said at last, each word slow, deliberate, like she was weighing them in her mouth before letting them fall.

She didn’t add that she’d watched from behind stone columns and heavy velvet curtains, from windows high above the training grounds where no one thought to look. That she’d memorized their footwork through layers of glass, traced sword arcs in the reflections of polished floors. That her breath had fogged the panes while she imagined herself out there with them.  Let Kara believe whatever she wanted. It was easier that way. Safer.

“That’s about it,” she finished softly.

Kara turned, one brow raised, arms folding as she studied Lena more carefully now.
“Watched, huh?” she repeated. “How’d you even manage that? The training grounds aren’t exactly public. It’s a guarded spot—you must’ve been pretty sneaky to get a glimpse without being caught.”

Lena shrugged, keeping her gaze low. “I found a way.”

Kara tilted her head. “Just watching isn’t the same as doing.”

“I know,” Lena said. “But I memorized the footwork. The strikes. The guards train in patterns—forms. I could recite them from memory if I had to.”

That caught Kara off guard for a moment. Her arms uncrossed slightly. “All of them?”

Lena nodded. “Every single one I’ve seen.”

The fire crackled between them. Kara looked at her with something new in her eyes—not disbelief, but a flicker of respect.

Lena shrugged, eyes down. “It’s not like I’ve had the chance to practice with anyone.”

Kara blinked, then huffed a breath—half laughter, half disbelief. “And yet you’re entering the most brutal tournament in the kingdom.”

Lena didn’t answer.

Kara stepped forward, expression softening. “You’ll never make it past the first round like that,” she said softly, not unkindly. “Let me train you. I know enough to get you ready. At least enough that you won’t get skewered the moment the horn blows.”

Lena looked up, startled. “No. I can handle it.”

Kara’s brow furrowed. “I’m sure you can,” she said evenly, “but you don’t have to do it alone. I’ve got weapons, space, time. You’ve got guts. Let’s combine forces.”

Lena hesitated. Her instincts screamed at her to say no, to protect her secret, her distance, her control. But Kara was right—they were running out of time, and Lena had never held a blade against another person.

“…Fine,” she said at last, voice barely above a whisper. “But nothing fancy.”

Kara grinned. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

—----------------------

The next morning, Lena drifted through the castle halls alone. The palace was a flurry of motion, every corner brimming with anticipation as the tournament drew closer. Banners in rich crimsons and golds were being unfurled from towering windows, their fabric rippling like flames in the breeze. Servants rushed past her in tightly choreographed chaos, arms laden with bolts of embroidered silk, trays of gleaming armor, or scrolls sealed in wax.

Outside, the clatter of hooves echoed through the stone courtyards as carriages rolled in, each one more ornate than the last, bearing noble houses from every corner of the realm. Family sigils blazed on doors and tunics, colors vivid beneath the pale morning sun. Pages shouted names and titles, announcing arrivals at the gates, while stewards scrambled to organize rooms and stables.

The entire palace pulsed with urgency, with purpose.

And through it all, Lena moved unnoticed—an afterthought amid the spectacle. No one looked her way. No one asked her to help, or even acknowledged her presence as she passed. It was like she didn’t exist. And in some ways, that suited her. If no one saw her, they couldn’t ask questions.

Dinner was no different. The grand, gilded table stretched endlessly before her, its polished surface reflecting the soft flicker of candlelight. Lena sat in near silence, the only other occupant her father—stoic, unreadable, and utterly absorbed in his work. Silver platters of roasted meats and glazed root vegetables were brought out with ceremonial flourish, but he barely glanced at them.

Instead, his eyes remained fixed on the stack of scrolls beside his plate, one hand holding a quill while the other absently reached for bites of food between signatures. He didn’t speak to her. Didn’t look at her.

Servants moved in practiced quiet around them, refilling goblets and clearing dishes with ghostlike efficiency. At one point, he gestured curtly toward the door without lifting his gaze. “Have these delivered to the tournament committee,” he said. “And bring the next set. I want the patrol routes reviewed before midnight.”

Lena didn’t respond, poking at her food, appetite lost; feeling more like part of the furniture than the king’s daughter.

Her mind drifted—back to the forge. Back to the warmth of the embers. To Kara.

The memory came unbidden: Kara’s hands as they worked firm but gentle, the slide of the measuring tape, the exact moment it tightened around her upper thigh. Lena’s breath had caught. Her heart had spiked. She hadn’t looked at Kara then—she couldn’t. But the moment lived in her now, vivid and burning just beneath her skin.

She shifted in her seat, cheeks flushed.

Across from her, her father didn’t notice. He didn’t even glance up. “Have these delivered to the tournament organizers,” he said, handing off a scroll with a flick of his wrist, eyes never leaving the document in front of him. “And bring me the missives from House Daxam. I want to see their terms before sundown.”

The servant bowed and slipped away, and the king continued reading as though Lena weren’t even there.

She sat quietly, her pulse still fluttering in her chest, caught between the clink of silverware and the burn of a memory she couldn’t shake. The gentle press of Kara’s fingers as they measured her chest. The way her breath had hitched, silent but undeniable.

She didn’t move. Her father didn’t notice. He never did.

And all the while, beneath the polished stillness of the dining hall, the secret life she’d begun to build stirred quietly inside her—growing bolder with every heartbeat.

Lena shifted in her chair, the polished wood creaking beneath her as she folded her hands neatly in her lap. The candlelight flickered across the fine gold plated dishes and untouched food in front of her. She drew in a breath, summoning the courage to break the silence.

“The banners look beautiful,” she said at last, her voice soft but laced with careful intention. “I passed through the east wing this morning—the colors catch the light just right. It all seems… very grand. The preparations, I mean.”

Across the table, her father didn’t so much as glance up. His eyes remained fixed on the scroll before him, the feathered tip of his quill twitching slightly as he made a note in the margin.

“They’re behind schedule,” he muttered, more to the parchment than to her. He dipped the quill in ink with sharp, practiced precision. “The stonemasons delayed the crest for the arena entrance. If it isn’t in place by morning, I’ll have their heads mounted beside it.”

Lena blinked, the weight of his words cold against the warmth of the candlelight. She lowered her gaze, unsure if she was more startled by the threat or by how casually it was spoken.

Lena straightened in her seat, willing herself not to retreat into silence. She tried again, her tone a touch more upbeat. “Will you be watching the duels yourself? Or just the final round?”

Her father paused—but not for her. Only long enough to scrawl a note in the margin of the scroll before him. “I’ll be there for the final,” he said, voice clipped. “The rest I’ll follow through reports. There are too many meetings to sit through every bout.”

Lena nodded slowly, her fingers tracing the edge of her plate. She wasn’t surprised. Still, some part of her had hoped for more.

“Do you think any new champions will rise this year?” she asked, carefully. “Someone unexpected?”

Her father snorted faintly, the closest thing to amusement he’d shown all evening. “The usual noble sons,” he said, flipping to the next page without missing a beat. “Trained since birth, armed with gold and legacy. That’s what the crowd comes to see. That’s who wins.”

Lena lowered her gaze to the untouched food on her plate, the silver gleam of her fork suddenly too bright. Across the table, her father was already lost again in his scrolls, the earlier exchange forgotten as if it had never happened. His quill scratched steadily, filling the space between them with a silence louder than words.

She sat motionless, her appetite refusing to reappear, the warmth of the dining hall unable to touch the chill gathering in her chest. Her heart felt heavy, crowded with everything she hadn’t said—everything she couldn’t say.

There, beneath the golden candlelight and the echo of turning pages, Lena felt the distance stretch wide between who she was expected to be… and the daring, reckless shadow of who she was becoming.

—----------------------

As the days passed, slipping in and out of the castle became second nature to Lena. What had once been daunting—ducking under archways, counting footsteps between torchlit halls, pausing at every creaking hinge—was now routine. The servant tunnels, narrow and winding, had become her second home. She memorized every shortcut, every loose stone and hidden alcove, until navigating them felt like a secret language only she could read.

Down in those quiet corridors, beneath the marble floors and golden chandeliers of the palace, she shed her title like a cloak. No one called her “Princess.” No one bowed. In the hush of the underground, Lena was just a shadow, moving swift and unseen. The weight of court life—the expectations, the rules, the masks—didn’t follow her here. Down here, she could breathe. Down here, she was free.

That night, Lena slipped through the forge’s side door once more, the familiar scent of smoke and steel wrapping around her like a cloak. The firelight danced against the soot-darkened walls, casting shifting shadows across the floor. It was quieter than the night before—no clanging of hammers, no hiss of quenched metal—just the low, steady crackle of embers and the hum of something unspoken between them.

Kara stood near the anvil, arms crossed, a smudge of soot on her cheek and a glint in her eye. She didn’t say anything at first, only watched as Lena stepped into the light, the forge’s heat painting her face in amber and gold.

“So,” Kara said, breaking the quiet with a spark of urgency in her voice. She rolled up her sleeves, eyes sharp beneath the flicker of firelight. “We need to go over the plan—and start training. Time’s slipping fast, and you’re going to need more than a blade in your hand to survive that arena.”

Lena stepped fully into the forge’s warm glow, the heat kissing her skin, the air thick with smoke and purpose. Her heart thudded against her ribs, heavy with anticipation, fear, and something else she didn’t dare name.

“I know,” she said, her voice even but low. “We’ll work through it.”

Kara moved without a word, striding toward the wall where several training swords leaned in a neat row. She scanned them briefly, then plucked one from the middle.

Without hesitation, she tossed it through the air.

Lena caught it mid-flight with a quiet thud against her palm, the motion smooth, instinctive. Her fingers closed around the hilt, testing the weight—its grip worn, but balanced, the blade catching the forge light as she turned. It wasn’t the finest blade she’d ever seen, but there was something honest about it—well-used, dependable. She let it rest in her hands for a moment, admiring the way the light kissed its edge.

Kara grabbed another sword from the wall, her fingers closing around the hilt with a familiarity that spoke of years spent in practice. She gave it a quick spin, the blade slicing the air with a low hum as she tested its weight and balance. Satisfied, she let it settle against her shoulder and turned to face Lena fully.

Her eyes met Lena’s with a quiet intensity, something determined flickering beneath the surface.

“Come on,” she said, nodding toward the forge’s side door. Her voice was steady, purposeful. “We’ll train somewhere quieter—somewhere we won’t wake anyone.”

Lena paused for only a heartbeat before falling into step behind her. Kara moved with the quiet confidence of someone who’d walked this path a hundred times. They slipped into the back alleys behind the forge, where the city narrowed and quieted. The stone walls pressed close, shadowed by overhanging balconies and laundry lines swaying gently in the night breeze. Their boots made only the faintest sound on the uneven cobblestones, a soft counterpoint to the distant hum of taverns and lantern carts far behind them.

Lena stayed alert, eyes scanning every turn and shadow, but Kara navigated the maze of backstreets with practiced ease. Not once did she hesitate. They ducked beneath a low archway, edged around an overgrown fountain choked with ivy, and slipped through a jagged break in a crumbling garden wall.

Beyond it, a narrow dirt trail led them away from the last glow of the city. Trees rose around them like sentinels, tall and quiet. The sounds of civilization fell away, replaced by the hush of wind-stirred leaves and the rhythmic crunch of forest floor beneath their feet.

Finally, the trees parted, revealing a wide, open grove nestled in the heart of the forest. Moonlight spilled across the field in pale ribbons, turning the grass silver and making the wildflowers at the edges shimmer like stars scattered across the ground.

Above them, the moon hung full and luminous, framed by swaying treetops. The air was cool and clean, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth. It was quiet, but not still—the kind of quiet that hummed beneath the surface, charged with something unspoken. Like the world was holding its breath.

Lena stepped into the clearing, her boots sinking slightly into the soft grass. She turned slowly, taking it in—the glow, the stillness, the hush of wind through the leaves. Her breath caught, chest tightening with something she couldn’t quite name. It was beautiful. Quietly, achingly beautiful.

Lena stood at the edge of the grove as if spellbound, her feet rooted to the earth beneath her, breath caught somewhere between awe and disbelief. Her fingers curled slightly around the hilt of the sword at her side, not out of caution—but to remind herself this was real. She had never seen a place like this. Not outside of books. Not in dreams. Not in her carefully contained world of marble pillars, cold corridors, and watchful eyes.

The palace had been her cage—built of gold, yes, but suffocating all the same. Walls upon walls. Endless gray halls lit by flickering torches and weighed down by silence and ceremony. Everything measured. Everything expected.

But here—

Here was air that tasted clean, pine-sweet and damp with dew. The moon spilled its light across the field in a quiet cascade, illuminating the soft sway of the grass and the glint of wildflowers nestled among the blades. The trees stood like sentries around the clearing, their leaves rustling in hushed voices only the stars could understand.

And in that moment, it felt like the world had exhaled. Like time had stopped counting. Like she was outside the pull of duty, if only for a breath.

She didn’t move. She didn’t dare. Because if she did, the magic might vanish.

And then something stirred—faint, fragile, like a ripple across still water. A memory surfaced, drawn up from the deepest part of her.

Lena, no older than four, chasing drifting dandelion fluff through a sunlit grove. The grass had been taller than her knees, the air thick with laughter and lilac. Her mother’s laughter. Bright and free, so different from the hushed tones and tight smiles Lena had grown used to. She could still feel it—her mother’s fingers weaving a crown of clover, gently pressing it to her tangled hair, tucking a lock behind her ear.

It was the only memory she had of her. The only real one that hadn’t been polished and reworded by advisors or buried beneath royal obligation. Just that single, sun-drenched moment—her mother kneeling in the grass, the sky wide and blue above them, and the castle nothing more than a distant shape on the horizon.

Then the moment had passed. Duty had reclaimed them both. And soon after, death had taken her mother entirely.

She blinked, the memory crashing over her like a sudden wave. When she finally looked up, her eyes landed on Kara.

Kara stood a few paces away, her sword resting loosely at her side, her head tilted back to catch the stars above. There was a quietness to her posture, a softness in the way she held herself. The fire that usually burned in her gaze had dulled, replaced by something deeper, something Lena couldn’t quite place. It was almost wistful, like she was seeing something beyond the grove, beyond the night. A kind of mourning—or maybe wonder.

Lena couldn’t tear her eyes away, captivated by the way the moonlight danced on Kara’s skin, her face turned toward the heavens, as if she, too, was searching for something beyond reach.

The moonlight played across Kara’s features, casting soft highlights along her cheekbones, catching in her lashes, and painting her skin in hues of silver and shadow. She looked like she belonged here—wild, untamed, and beautiful, as if she were part of the very night itself.

Lena didn’t speak. She couldn’t. She stood frozen, her breath shallow, chest tightening. Something stirred deep inside her, an unfamiliar sensation unfurling like a bloom long pressed flat, coming to life in the quiet of the grove. The sight of Kara—so at ease, so effortlessly part of this world—left Lena feeling both lost and found, caught between the beauty of the moment and the weight of her own silence.

Kara slowly tore her gaze away from the stars, her expression softening in a way that made Lena's heart skip a beat. Her eyes lingered on Lena, and a small, knowing smile tugged at the corners of her lips, as if she’d caught something in the quiet of the night—a fleeting connection that hung between them, delicate and charged. The moment felt suspended, like a secret shared without words.

"Ready to start?" Kara asked, her voice steady yet carrying a gentle curiosity in her eyes. It was as if she was waiting for Lena’s next move, for her to step into this world they were about to carve together. The question hung in the air, an invitation not just to train, but to embrace the journey ahead.

Chapter Text

Kara stepped back, boots whispering over the grass, her stance relaxed but ready. The sword in her hand hung low, its edge catching slivers of moonlight as she turned it slightly, testing the weight. Her gaze fixed on Lena with a playful challenge.

“Alright,” she said, voice low and coaxing. “Show me what you’ve got.”

Lena didn’t move. The hood of her cloak still draped over her head, casting her face in shadow. She gripped the hilt of her sword tighter, fingers curling and uncurling in a slow, nervous rhythm. Her chest rose with a controlled breath, but her boots remained planted, silent against the earth. Something in her posture was tense—not with fear, exactly, but with restraint. Like she was holding something back.

Kara’s stance shifted subtly, her weight rocking forward. She tilted her head, eyes narrowing just slightly beneath the moonlight. “Don’t be scared,” she said, her voice low, edged with encouragement. “And don’t worry about hurting me. You won’t.”

Still, Lena didn’t move. Her grip on the sword was firm now, but her feet felt rooted to the earth. A beat passed. Then—

Kara lunged.

The movement was sudden, fluid, like a snap of lightning. Her blade cut through the air with precision, aimed not to injure but to test. Lena gasped and barely had time to react. Her sword rose on instinct alone, catching Kara’s strike with a sharp clang that echoed through the grove. She stumbled back, boots skidding through the grass, but her footing held.

Her breath caught in her chest—sharp, panicked—but her body was already responding. Muscle memory kicked in, and with each clash of their blades, the fear started to burn off like mist at sunrise.

Kara came again, relentless but measured, her strikes swift and fluid like a tide testing the shore. Each movement was deliberate—pushing, probing, assessing. Lena's boots slid across the grass as she retreated, matching Kara’s pace step for step.

But with every blow, she learned. She watched Kara’s stance, the subtle shift in her hips before a feint, the way her shoulders dipped just before a swing. She mapped it all in her head, memorizing the patterns like choreography. This wasn’t just combat—it was a language. And Lena was starting to understand.

And then Lena saw it—a subtle shift in Kara’s stance, the tiniest opening in her guard.

She pivoted sharply, fluid as a current, turning defense into offense in a heartbeat. Her blade darted forward with a speed that surprised even her, each strike swift, controlled, deliberate. Kara stepped back, parrying, her grin sharpening as Lena pressed the attack.

The hood of Lena’s cloak slipped from her head with the motion, tumbling down her shoulders—but she barely noticed. Her focus was razor-thin, locked onto every movement, every breath. For the first time, she wasn’t hesitating. She wasn’t hiding. She was in it. Alive in the moment.

Kara’s grin widened with each clash of their blades, a fire dancing in her eyes. But then—just for a second—it shifted. A smirk, calculated and knowing, curved her lips.

Without warning, her tempo changed. Swift as a viper, her sword dipped low, slipping beneath Lena’s guard with startling precision. Steel met steel in a sharp twist, and Lena’s blade flew from her grasp, clattering into the grass behind her.

Before she could even register the loss, Kara was there—silent, steady—the cold tip of her sword pressed just below Lena’s collarbone, the moonlight glinting off the blade.

They stood frozen in the moonlit hush, their breaths shallow, curling between them in the cool night air. The grove held its breath too, wrapped in silver and silence. Kara’s eyes searched Lena’s, glinting with something unreadable—part amusement, part pride, and maybe something softer beneath.

“Not bad, Princess” she murmured, a hint of a grin tugging at her mouth. “Not bad at all.”

Lena’s heart thundered in her chest, each breath sharp and quick as Kara’s words echoed through the charged stillness between them. Her body still thrummed with adrenaline, muscles humming from the clash, but then—like a sudden gust through still water—the haze of movement and instinct gave way to realization.

The night air kissed her skin, cool and unfiltered, brushing along her cheeks and brow.

Her face.

Uncovered.

Her hand flew up instinctively, fingertips grazing the edge of her cloak. The hood—it had fallen during the fight, and she hadn’t even noticed. Heat flooded her cheeks as a different kind of panic surged through her, sharper and colder than any blade.

She fumbled with the fabric, yanking it back over her head with trembling fingers. Her gaze dropped, avoiding Kara’s eyes, heart pounding for reasons that had nothing to do with sparring. Every inch of her felt suddenly too visible, too vulnerable—like the shadows she’d hidden behind had been stripped away in an instant.

Kara’s sword slipped away from Lena’s chest, and instead of letting it fall, she expertly used the tip of her blade to scoop up Lena’s fallen sword from the ground. With a fluid motion, she held the hilt out toward Lena, her expression calm, almost expectant.

Lena hesitated for a moment, still catching her breath, before reaching out to take the sword. Her fingers curled around the hilt, but there was a slight tremor to her grip as she steadied herself.

Lena stood still for a moment, heart still hammering. She blinked, trying to steady herself. Then, her voice caught, her curiosity pulling her out of the cloud of embarrassment. "How did you know?" she asked, her words coming out a little more brittle than she intended. "How did you know I was the princess?"

Kara didn’t miss the hesitation. She looked at Lena, her gaze steady. "It was your voice," she said, her tone casual yet observant. "Something about it… different from everyone else’s. I noticed it right from the start." She paused for a moment, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "I pieced it together slowly, gathering little clues here and there."

Kara shrugged slightly, her eyes thoughtful. "People reveal themselves, even when they don’t mean to."

Her expression softened, the sharp edge of combat melting away into something quieter—more human. Kara’s eyes lingered on Lena’s face, searching, maybe, for the pieces that had stayed hidden until now. The silence stretched between them, heavy with everything that had just shifted.

Slowly, Kara let her sword drop to her side, the metal no longer a barrier but an afterthought. Her shoulders relaxed, her stance less guarded now, more open.

“I get why you didn’t tell me,” she said, her voice low and steady, threaded with understanding. “It’s dangerous. Carrying something like that—who you are—means watching every word, every step. Trusting the wrong person could cost everything.”

Her voice remained calm, but beneath it was a quiet conviction—solid, unshaken, like stone beneath water.

“But it doesn’t change anything,” Kara said, her voice low but firm, each word carrying a quiet certainty that rang through the silence between them. “Not for me.”

She took a step closer—measured, intentional. Not aggressive, not demanding. Just enough to close the last bit of distance between them until there was barely a whisper of space left.

Her eyes never left Lena’s. They held her there, steady and unwavering, bright as moonlit steel and just as strong. “I still want to help,” she said, softer now, though the conviction in her voice didn’t waver. “Whatever name you go by, whatever past you carry—I’m still here.”

Lena’s breath hitched.

Kara stood only inches away now—so close Lena could see every freckle dusting her cheeks, every faint flicker of thought behind her eyes. The warmth of her presence pressed gently into the chill of the night, grounding Lena in a way she hadn’t expected. If she just reached out, barely at all, she’d touch her. Skin to skin. Real. Present.

And for the first time in a long time, Lena didn’t want to step back.

She looked up, her breath catching as her gaze met Kara’s—those bright blue eyes shimmering under the moonlight like polished glass, aglow with something tender, something unspoken that tugged at the edges of Lena’s guarded heart. There was a softness in them, a question, a promise, all wrapped into one silent look.

Kara stood like she belonged in this dream-lit grove, the silver light tracing the curve of her cheekbones and the line of her jaw. The wildness in her hadn’t dimmed—it had simply softened, shaped into something breathtaking. Untamed, yet gentle. Beautiful in a way that made Lena ache.

Then, slowly, Kara lifted her hands, her movements quiet, almost reverent. Her fingertips brushed the edges of Lena’s hood, delicate as a breeze, as if asking permission rather than taking it.

But Lena moved first.

Her hands rose instinctively, catching Kara’s wrists before the hood could be drawn back. Her fingers wrapped around them gently—not to push her away, but to pause her. A quiet barrier. A moment held still.

“I’ve never had anyone,” Lena murmured, her voice barely more than a breath, the words thick with years of silence. “No friends. No maids I could trust. Not even my family.” Her eyes dropped for a heartbeat, then lifted again to meet Kara’s. “It’s always been… me. Trust doesn’t come easy.”

The weight of it hung in the air between them—raw, honest, and trembling at the edges. Her hands didn’t loosen, not yet. But she didn’t let go, either.

Kara didn’t pull away. She didn’t flinch or rush the moment. She just stood there, steady as stone, patient as the moon above them, her gaze locked to Lena’s—quiet, open, and waiting.

And something inside Lena cracked open.

Her fingers loosened their hold, slipping away from Kara’s wrists and falling gently to her sides.

Kara’s hands moved again, slower this time. Her touch was careful, reverent, as she drew the hood back. Her fingertips lingered for a breath, tucking a loose strand of hair behind Lena’s ear with a tenderness that made Lena’s chest tighten.

Lena’s black hair spilled free, cascading over her shoulders like a waterfall of midnight. The moonlight caught every strand, turning it to liquid shadow. Her pale skin seemed to glow against the silver of the night, delicate and ethereal. And her eyes—deep green and searching, still edged with uncertainty but no longer hidden—rose to meet Kara’s without flinching. No mask. No title. Just Lena.

The silence of the grove stretched long and quiet, filled with more than just stillness. It pulsed between them—electric, fragile, sacred. The hush of the night wrapped around them like a veil, broken only by the soft rustle of leaves and the distant call of an owl. But neither of them moved. Neither of them spoke. They just stood there, bathed in silver light, eyes locked.

Lena could feel Kara’s gaze tracing every line of her face, not in judgment, but in awe. And then Kara breathed a single word, barely audible—like it had slipped out without permission.

“…Wow.”

She blinked, her voice coming low and quiet, almost as if speaking it too loud would break the spell. “I heard stories,” she murmured. “Of the Princess’s beauty. Whispers in taverns, rumors passed between soldiers.” A faint, almost sheepish smile tugged at her lips. “But they don’t come close. Not to this.”

Her hand lifted as if of its own accord, rising slowly toward Lena’s face—fingers trembling just slightly in the moonlight. But before she could touch her, she stopped. Her hand hovered just shy of Lena’s cheek, suspended in that delicate space where intention and restraint meet.

Then Kara blinked hard, drawing in a breath and pulling her hand back as she cleared her throat, the moment dissolving like mist in the breeze. She straightened her stance, shifting the weight of her sword in her grip.

“Anyway,” she said, her voice more clipped now, more herself again. “You’re good. That attack back there—it was sharp. Calculated. You read the rhythm and moved at the right time.” She glanced at Lena, her tone warming slightly. “But you’ve got habits. Guard drops too soon after a strike. Feet plant too long when you switch to offense. You’ve got instincts. We just need to shape them.”

The glow hadn’t left her eyes, not completely—but her focus had shifted. Back to the training. Back to the fight. But something had changed, and they both knew it.

—----------------------

Night after night, the secluded grove became their private world—a sanctuary hidden from prying eyes, bathed in the ethereal glow of starlight and silver moonbeams. The soft grass beneath their feet bore the marks of their boots, each print a silent testament to the intensity of their training. Towering trees loomed around them like silent sentinels, their branches swaying gently in the breeze, as though keeping watch over the unspoken bond growing between them. In this quiet, sacred space, Lena and Kara found something neither had expected—something that defied the weight of their separate worlds.

The clang of their swords was a sharp, rhythmic beat that echoed through the night, cutting through the stillness of the grove. The air was crisp and filled with the scent of earth and leaves, but the clash of metal was the only sound that seemed to matter. Kara, ever the perfectionist, watched Lena with the eyes of a craftsman, seeing beyond the surface of her strikes. She observed the subtle shifts of Lena’s body—the way her weight shifted on her feet, how her movements, though precise, sometimes lacked the fluidity she needed. With careful attention, Kara corrected her stances, offering small but meaningful adjustments. Her touch was light but firm—on Lena’s arm, her shoulder, guiding her like a sculptor chiseling away at a block of stone to reveal the masterpiece hidden within.

Kara’s teachings were like a dance, a back-and-forth of subtle instruction and correction. She demonstrated smoother footwork, more efficient movements, new techniques Lena hadn’t learned in her years of solitary practice. Each lesson was a gift, each demonstration a piece of the puzzle that Lena hadn’t known was missing. And though Kara’s words were firm, they were never harsh—always patient, always encouraging. Lena absorbed every lesson, every correction, as if they were drops of water on parched earth, quenching a thirst she hadn’t even realized she’d had.

In return, Lena began to share the knowledge she had spent years quietly gathering—battle strategies whispered in hushed tones behind closed doors, clever formations and tactical decisions spoken by the royal guards when they thought no one was listening. Her insights were born from observation, from hours spent watching seasoned soldiers and learning the rhythm of battle through the cracks in the walls. She taught Kara how to anticipate movements, how to read a fighter’s body language before the first strike even began, and how to use the environment to her advantage—whether it was terrain, cover, or the positioning of light and shadow. Her lessons were sharp, practical, and often carried an unexpected edge, as if the very air around them buzzed with the wisdom of a world Lena had learned to navigate with quiet finesse. Kara took it all in with the same fierce intensity she brought to their swordplay, her focus unwavering.

Their training sessions were relentless, pushing each other beyond limits neither had thought possible. Sweat soaked their clothes, bruises blossomed across skin, and their breath came in labored gasps, but neither of them faltered. They held nothing back, each strike a challenge, each counter a promise that they would grow stronger together. Their blades clanged against each other with resounding force, the sound sharp and relentless in the still of the grove. But beneath every collision of steel, there was a bond, a silent trust growing between them.

With every correction, every move, there was an unspoken care—an understanding that they were pushing each other not just to be better fighters, but to become something more. Something stronger. Something real.

And as they trained, the walls between them began to slip away. They spoke of things they’d never shared with anyone else—bits and pieces of their lives, their fears, their frustrations. Lena spoke of the rigid world she’d been born into, of the suffocating expectations and the loneliness that clung to her like a second skin. Kara opened up about feeling like an outsider, despite years spent working in the forge—never truly seen as anything more than an apprentice. The vulnerability in their words was quiet, but it was there, hanging in the air like the breathless silence between each swing of their swords.

With every lesson learned, with every strike and parry, their bond deepened. It wasn’t just about mastering their craft—it was about slowly peeling away the armor they had each built to protect themselves. Armor that had once seemed impenetrable, but now, under the weight of shared trust, was beginning to crack.

One evening, after a particularly grueling session, Kara dropped her sword into the grass with a thud and sank down onto the ground, her back resting against a sturdy tree. Sweat clung to her skin, and she exhaled a long, frustrated sigh, wiping the back of her hand across her forehead. She looked up at Lena, her gaze distant and clouded with something quieter than the usual fire in her eyes.

Lena, her sword resting lightly in her hand, watched Kara for a moment, her brow furrowing in thought. The question had been lingering in the back of her mind for some time, but tonight, with the air thick with silence and the moonlight casting shadows on the grass, it felt like the right moment.

"You’re always at the forge," Lena said, her voice soft but curious, breaking the stillness. "Or here, with me... training. What about your family? Do they... do they ever wonder where you are?"

Kara’s posture stiffened for a moment, a slight hesitation in her eyes before she let out a slow breath. She shifted, her gaze dropping to the ground in front of her, her fingers nervously brushing against the grass. It was as if the question had caught her off guard, one she hadn’t had to face in a long time.

"I don’t really remember them," she replied quietly, her voice distant, as if the words themselves held a weight of something long buried. "Just... vague feelings. Being with them as a kid, their voices." She paused, her eyes clouding over slightly, a trace of something painful flickering behind them. "But it’s like they’re fading now, the details slipping away. Like I’m losing them, piece by piece. It’s hard to even hold onto their faces anymore."

She let out a shaky breath, pulling her knees closer to her chest, a moment of rare vulnerability flickering across her features. Her fingers clenched into fists, pressing them against her legs as if to ground herself.

Lena felt her chest tighten at Kara’s words, her own thoughts drifting to the loss she had carried for so long. She stood silently for a moment, contemplating, the air heavy with the weight of unspoken truths between them. She slowly sat down next to Kara.

“I... I lost my mother when I was young,” Lena began, her voice steady, but the vulnerability beneath the words was clear. She looked down at her hands, almost as if to ground herself. “My father said it was the plague that took her.”

There was a slight catch in her breath, but she continued, her tone softer now, almost to herself. “I don’t remember much about her, only bits and pieces—the way she used to smile, the sound of her voice when she’d read to me... but those memories are blurry too, fading. Sometimes I wonder if the stories he told me are just... just what he wanted me to believe.”

She shifted her weight, glancing at Kara. "I didn’t have much after that. My father was distant, cold, and there was no one else—just the castle walls and the duty that came with them. No one to care for me in the way a mother would." Her voice trailed off, leaving a heavy silence in the air.

Kara sat silently for a moment, her gaze flickering to the stars above, as if they might offer her some kind of answer. She let out a slow, quiet breath, and then spoke, her voice carrying a weight of something old, something unresolved.

“I didn’t grow up here,” she said softly, not meeting Lena’s eyes at first. “I’m from far, far away—outside your kingdom. I was sent away when I was just a child.” Her fingers toyed with the grass beneath her, picking at it absentmindedly. “At the time, I didn’t understand why. They told me it was for my safety, but... I never really knew what was going on, or why I had to leave. I was too young to ask questions.”

She looked up at Lena then, her gaze steady but distant, a quiet longing there, buried deep. “I’ve spent my whole life trying to figure out where I’m from, trying to find a way back to that place. But... I don’t think it’s ever meant to be. Not now.”

Lena’s curiosity was evident, her brow furrowing slightly as she asked, “Where are you from, Kara?”

Kara hesitated, her gaze flickering to the horizon. For a moment, she was quiet, lost in thought. Then, with a deep breath, she shook her head, her words quieter now. “It’s really far. And it doesn’t matter. Not anymore.” She gave a small, almost imperceptible shrug. “What matters is what’s here. What’s in front of us.”

Lena said nothing at first. The weight of Kara’s words settled in her chest, a quiet ache that pulsed with understanding. She knew there was more—unspoken pieces that Kara hadn’t laid bare, fragments of a past too tangled or painful to voice. But she didn’t press. Kara wasn’t ready. Not yet.

And still… something shifted that night.

Not with any grand confession or dramatic moment. But in the silence that lingered after. In the way Kara’s hand brushed against Lena’s forearm as she helped her to her feet—gentle, steady, grounding. In the soft curve of Lena’s smile the following night, real and unguarded, as she finally managed to knock Kara’s sword from her grip and watched the surprise flash across her face.

Their bond didn’t forge itself in fire all at once—it layered itself into place, one quiet moment at a time. In the hush of the grove, between the clash of swords and the sting of bruises, between laughter and breathless exhaustion, trust began to grow. Slowly. Carefully. Honestly.

It was a trust neither of them had known before. Hard-won, but deeply rooted.

—----------------------

Lena stood beneath the wide arch of the courtyard, the moonlight dusting the ground in a silver haze. She had grown used to the silence of these late hours, the stillness before the world stirred—but today, something pulled at her attention.

Then she saw her.

Kara stepped out of the forge like something forged from the fire itself—smoke curling behind her, ash clinging to her arms and face in dark streaks. Her hair was a mess, tied back hastily, damp with sweat. She looked completely wrecked—exhausted, bruised, covered in grime. And yet, to Lena, she had never looked more radiant.

“What are you waiting for, Princess,” Kara gestured dramatically to the door behind her, “The night awaits.”

Lena rolled her eyes and shook her head,  following Kara into the side door of the forge. “I told you not to call me that.”

“As you wish, Princess.”

Inside the forge, the world dimmed.

The darkness of the night gave way to the warm, amber glow of the dying coals, casting soft shadows along the stone walls. The air was still tinged with the scent of smoke, leather, and steel, though now it held something calmer—quiet anticipation instead of the usual clang of hammer to anvil. Kara led the way, her boots soft against the well-worn floor, and Lena followed, her eyes taking in the space with new awareness.

It felt different now. Not just a place of work, but something more sacred—like a hidden room in a temple, where creation and purpose met in silence.

Kara stopped beside a worn wooden bench tucked near the back, the armor set out piece by piece with almost ceremonial care. Gauntlets. Breastplate. Helmet. Each one lovingly crafted, waiting to become something more when worn.

The plates shimmered faintly in the light, polished to a dull silver sheen, edges reinforced with precision and care. Every line, every joint, had been shaped with Lena in mind—sleek and purposeful, built for speed without sacrificing protection. Even the smallest details, from the brushed metal along the ribs to the careful leatherwork at the shoulders, bore Kara’s signature craftsmanship.

Lena took a step forward, almost without thinking, eyes wide with quiet awe. Her breath caught as she looked at it—then at Kara, whose tired smile made Lena’s chest ache.

“You’ll want to start with the padding,” Kara said, her voice quiet, almost reverent. She handed Lena the underlayer—soft, dark cloth reinforced at the joints, stitched with thread strong enough to hold under pressure but gentle against skin.

Lena nodded and turned away slightly as she dressed, slipping into the gear with a practiced efficiency—though this time, she moved more carefully, aware that every inch of it had been made by someone else’s hands. By Kara’s.

When she was ready, Kara helped with the armor itself, fitting the plates one by one. Her fingers were gentle but sure, adjusting straps and smoothing edges where the leather hugged Lena’s arms. The breastplate settled into place with a quiet click, snug but breathable, molded perfectly to Lena’s frame.

The joints were reinforced with layered plating, designed for movement without sacrificing protection. It was light in the hand, yet carried a quiet strength—each curve, each seam, forged with intention. The leather straps were dyed a deep midnight blue, softened and stitched with precision, fitting snugly beneath the cool steel. And where most would add flair, Kara had chosen restraint: the embellishments were minimal—just a delicate etching along the collar, a single sigil hidden near the heart. Regal, but not loud. Noble, without shouting.

No words passed between them for a while—just the quiet sound of buckles tightening, of breath shared in close proximity. Lena glanced up once, catching Kara’s expression as she fastened the last strap across her shoulder. There was focus in her eyes, but something else too—something soft and proud and almost awed.

“How does it feel?” Kara asked, stepping back to take it all in.

It gleamed silver beneath the dappled forge light, catching on the edges of the fire like water flowing over polished stone. The armor was a masterpiece—sleek and elegant, yet undeniably built for war. Every line of it had been shaped with care, the metal molded to Lena’s frame as if it had always belonged there.

Lena flexed her arms, shifted her weight, rolled her shoulders. The armor moved with her—solid, sure, yet light enough to dance in.

“Like it belongs.” She said quietly. Then she met Kara’s eyes.

And in the hush of the forge, surrounded by steel and fire and silence, that felt like the truest thing she’d ever said.

“It’s… incredible,” she murmured, her voice quieter than usual, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the moment. Then, after a pause—softer still—she added, “Thank you.”

Kara blinked. For a second, her expression froze—surprised, maybe, or just caught off guard. Then a grin broke across her face, slow and smug. “Did you just say thank you?” she asked, lifting a brow. She stepped back dramatically, fanning herself with a soot-streaked hand. “Stars above, I need to etch this day into the wall of the forge.”

Lena rolled her eyes, but the smile tugging at her lips betrayed her. It lingered there, quiet and warm, even as she shook her head at Kara’s antics.

And for a moment, the world around them felt light—like the weight of war and titles and secrets had faded, if only for a breath.

Lena was still turning in the quiet forge, the soft leather of the armor molding perfectly to her every movement. It felt surreal—like slipping into a version of herself she’d only ever imagined in stolen moments. Her fingertips brushed the embossed detailing along the bracers, and a faint smile tugged at her lips.

But then, like a blade slicing through cloth, the thought hit her.

She stiffened.

Her breath hitched, and her hand dropped away from the armor as her eyes snapped wide in sudden panic. “The papers,” she said, the words barely audible, like they’d clawed their way out of her throat.

She turned to Kara, her expression shifting fast—admiration melting into rising dread. “The noble papers—I was supposed to have someone forge them for me.” She took a sharp step forward, heart racing. “The tournament’s in two weeks, and I—” She paused, blinking hard, frustration curling in her chest. “I completely forgot—”

The silence that followed stretched, thick with the weight of her realization.

But Kara didn’t flinch. She didn’t mirror Lena’s panic or even look the slightest bit surprised.

Instead, with the calmness of someone who’d seen this moment coming, she turned toward the wooden desk tucked into the shadowed corner of the forge. The surface was cluttered—stacks of metal sketches, half-finished blueprints, scraps of parchment inked in quick, messy handwriting. A few pages were singed at the corners, others stained with soot or the faint imprint of an oil-slicked thumb. But one stood out.

A single sheet of parchment lay untouched by the chaos around it—its surface flawless, smooth and heavy, the color of bone-white vellum. The edges shimmered faintly with gold foil, and at its base, a seal had been pressed with care—neat, bold, and convincing.

Kara reached out and plucked it from the pile with two fingers, holding it like something both casual and quietly important. Her movements were deliberate, steady, as if she’d been waiting for this exact moment all along.

Kara’s voice was light, almost teasing, as she read the parchment aloud, the words flowing off her tongue with ease. “I thought you might forget,” she said, her tone laced with amusement. “Kal-El of Krypton. A minor noble from a province so deep in the Eastern Wilds that no one’s likely to ask questions. Wealthy, reclusive, fond of falconry and swordsmanship.”

She glanced at Lena from the corner of her eye, a playful quirk tugging at the corner of her lips. “Very exclusive bloodline,” she added with a smirk, as though the name itself could somehow elevate the entire act.

Lena’s mind went blank. She could only stare at Kara, mouth slightly agape. The words were too much to absorb. Her breath caught in her throat. She couldn’t blink, couldn’t speak.

“You…” She finally found her voice, though it trembled slightly, “You… forged them?” The disbelief in her tone was unmistakable, her heart pounding in her chest. She stepped closer, feeling the heat of the forge air pressing against her skin. “You entered me?”

Kara simply shrugged, as if the entire thing was as simple as brushing dust off a coat. "Figured you'd be too busy brooding in castle towers and fighting ghosts in your head," she said nonchalantly. "Someone had to make sure you got in."

Lena stood still, the weight of the moment pressing down on her, but it wasn’t shock that held her silent this time. It was something deeper, something that settled in her chest like a heavy, comforting weight.

The parchment gleamed in Kara’s hand, the ink and gold seals catching the light. It was a symbol of everything Lena had longed for—something she’d dreamed of but never believed she could reach. Her heart clenched, but not with fear. No, this feeling was warm, unfamiliar, and impossibly good. Admiration, yes, but something else—a quiet awe she couldn’t quite place.

Her eyes moved from the parchment to Kara. She really looked at her now, taking in the soot on her cheek, the ink smudge on her wrist, the faint yet unmistakable smirk trying to hide the pride that Kara wore so plainly. There was something raw and real about her in this moment—something that Lena had never expected to see from someone like Kara.

The realization hit Lena all at once, her throat tightening as words bubbled to the surface.

“You did all this…” she whispered, her voice barely audible. She swallowed hard. “For me?”

Kara didn’t answer right away. She just held out the parchment, the edges smooth beneath her fingers, as if it belonged to Lena all along. There was no hesitation in her gesture—just quiet certainty.

Lena reached out, her fingers brushing against Kara’s as she took the parchment. The brief contact sent a strange warmth through her, a quiet spark that lingered between them. And in that moment, as the parchment settled into her hands, Lena realized that the armor wasn’t the only thing that fit just right.

It was her place here. With Kara. Something that had been missing, something she hadn’t even known she was searching for, was beginning to take root between them.

—----------------------

Late one night, unable to coax her restless thoughts into sleep, Lena slipped out of her chambers and descended into the depths of the castle. The world outside her window was cloaked in stillness, moonlight casting silver veils across the stone corridors. Not even the wind stirred. The halls were hushed, the cool stone floors chilling her bare feet with each careful step. She didn’t bother with slippers or a cloak—she hadn’t planned to wander far.

She wasn’t even sure where she was going until she found herself approaching the familiar wooden door to the forge.

Kara’s forge.

She paused there for a moment, hand resting on the cool iron of the latch. She hadn’t meant to intrude. Really, she hadn’t meant to come at all. But there was a comfort in the thought of Kara still being up, hammering away at steel, her presence quiet but solid. Maybe they’d share a few words. Maybe they wouldn’t. She just wanted the warm orange glow of the fire, the gentle hum of steel on steel, the way the forge always made the castle feel a little less hollow.

But when she opened the door, the forge greeted her only with silence.

The hearth at the center still glowed faintly, the embers smoldering a dull, sleepy red. Shadows danced gently along the stone walls, cast by the dying light. Kara was gone—no hammer in hand, no soot-streaked arms, no low hum of song while she worked. Just stillness, and the faint smell of ash and steel still clinging to the air, layered now with something else—older, mustier. A scent like dry parchment and earth, like books that hadn’t been opened in decades.

Drawn forward by instinct more than intent, Lena stepped deeper into the forge. Her gaze swept across the space—familiar in its disorder. The workbench sat in its usual cluttered state, a chaotic sprawl of tools, half-sketched designs, half-forged weapons, and scraps of leather and parchment. There were burn marks on the wood, smudges of ink and soot, cracked glass vials filled with mystery liquids, and a pile of half-used quills. And yet, amidst the mess, Lena had learned there was always a method—Kara knew exactly where everything was, even if it didn’t look like it.

Lena approached the workbench like it was sacred ground, her fingertips brushing over a length of twisted metal, then a roll of paper curling at the edges. This space held pieces of Kara—her mind, her hands, her quiet brilliance—more than any corridor in the castle ever had. And despite the forge’s emptiness, Lena felt closer to her here than she had all day.

Then her eyes caught on something she hadn’t seen before.

A book. Thick. Worn. Half-covered by a roll of blueprints and a discarded pair of gloves. It was out of place among the scraps and blades.

Thick, dark, and oddly pristine, nestled beneath a fold of worn parchment and a pair of Kara’s leather gloves. It was hidden—not deliberately, perhaps, but not left out in the open either. Out of place in a room of hard steel and soft ash.

Lena reached for it, her fingers brushing over the smooth surface. It was cool to the touch—cooler than it should’ve been, even in the chilly air of the forge. The cover was a deep, matte black, worn at the corners but without a single marking. No title. No embossing. No crest of the royal library or sigil of a known house. It looked ancient and anonymous, like it had slipped through time and ended up here by accident—or by design.

Her brow furrowed. Kara wasn’t much of a reader, not like her. So why did this book feel important?

She turned it over slowly in her hands, looking for a hint, a name, anything that would explain why it was here—why it felt like it shouldn’t be. But the book gave her nothing. Just silence, weight, and a strange sense that it was waiting for something.

Lena hesitated, thumb resting against the edge of the cover.

Then, with a soft breath and a flick of her wrist, she opened it.

As her gaze drifted down the page, Lena read the first few lines—then a few more—and something in her chest stilled. These weren’t the carefully crafted tales of myth and legend she was used to. There were no noble heroes slaying beasts or poets embellishing battles with flowery prose. This was different.

The words were meticulous, almost clinical in their detail, chronicling events not with flair but with precision. It was a history—one she had never encountered before. The book recounted kingdoms that had vanished long before her father’s rule, before even his ancestors had laid claim to the throne. Kingdoms whose names had never come up in her studies, whose borders once stretched across lands now swallowed by time.

Each line breathed life into lost empires and long-dead kings, their reigns preserved in ink as if they had been waiting for someone—her—to find them. Forgotten wars filled the pages, alliances forged and shattered, dynasties rising in power and crumbling just as swiftly. She could almost see them: banners snapping in foreign winds, cities carved from stone and magic, rulers with names that echoed with something strange and ancient.

It didn’t read like fiction. It read like truth—like something buried. And as Lena turned another page, unable to stop herself, it began to feel less like reading and more like uncovering.

Lena’s heart quickened. She turned another page, the parchment whispering beneath her fingertips. The words there were just as staggering—accounts of rituals, of rulers wielding forces beyond comprehension, of entire cities built around ancient wells of magic.

She paused, eyes flicking toward the forge’s entrance. Still empty. The only sound was the soft crackle of dying embers in the hearth. The silence pressed in closer, heavier now, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath.

Her throat tightened.

No one had shown her this. Not Kara. Not her tutors. No scholar had ever mentioned these kingdoms. This knowledge had slipped through the cracks of time—or been hidden.

Lena closed the book slowly, fingers lingering on the smooth, unmarked cover. Her pulse was steady but hard, like a drumbeat just beneath her skin. She didn’t know why Kara had this—why it had been tucked away in the mess of her workbench, half-buried under scraps of armor and stained blueprints. She didn’t know how it had come to be here at all.

But something deep in her gut stirred—instinctual and undeniable. This book wasn’t supposed to be found. Not by her. Maybe not by anyone.

She glanced once more around the darkened forge, heart thudding. The shadows clung to the walls, flickering faintly with the last glow of the embers, and still—no sign of Kara.

Lena hesitated, the weight of the book pressing into her palms. She felt a flicker of guilt twist in her stomach. Stealing from Kara—who had forged her armor, her tournament papers, who had done more for her than anyone else—felt wrong. But this wasn’t like taking something valuable. It was just a book. Just for the night.

“I’ll return it tomorrow,” she whispered to herself, barely audible even to her own ears. “She won’t even notice.”

She slipped the book under her arm and, as quietly as she had come in, turned and disappeared into the shadows of the corridor.

Back to her chambers. Back to the sanctuary of secrecy. Back to pages that might unravel everything she thought she knew.

—----------------------

Her heart quickened slightly with the thrill of discovery, something rare in a place she thought she knew so well. Tucking the book under her arm, she made her way toward the cozy nook by the window in her chambers, moonlight as her only source of light. As Lena sank into the soft cushions, she made herself comfortable, the book resting on her lap.

She leaned back against the plush pillows, the soft moonlight spilling through the window and casting cold rays over the pages of the mysterious book in her hands. Outside, the gardens were quiet, the breeze gently swaying the leaves, but Lena hardly noticed. Her gaze was fixed entirely on the unmarked pages, her heart quickening as she inhaled the comforting scent of old parchment, mingling with the faint, musty air of her chambers.

Sitting cross-legged, she carefully opened the cover, feeling the coolness of the paper against her fingers. The soft rustle of the pages as she turned them was like a delicate melody, soothing in the quiet of the room. Lena’s eyes skimmed the first page, the ink slightly faded but still legible, before she leaned in closer, eager to absorb every word. The text was written in elegant script, a language she recognized but still found oddly ancient in tone.

Her pulse quickened as she read on. These were the kinds of histories her father’s scholars would never dare mention—too old, too obscure, too far removed from the reality of the present. But here they were, laid out in the book before her, as real as the pages they were written on. Lena traced the names of rulers she’d never heard of, each one a shadow from a past forgotten by all but a few scribes, their stories hidden from her education, from the kingdom she was born into.

The more she read, the more she realized just how much had been left out of her lessons. Why hadn’t she been told about these lands, these ancient rulers? What had happened to them? And why had their histories been erased so thoroughly that no one in her world seemed to remember them?

Each new kingdom she discovered felt like a secret, a revelation that pulled her deeper into the enigma of the past. She felt like she was trespassing on knowledge that had been carefully hidden away—perhaps intentionally. But no matter the reason, she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the pages. These kingdoms, with their forgotten wars and lost traditions, seemed to beckon her, as if they had something to say about the world she lived in now.

Lena’s fingers paused on the pages as the realization sank in—this wasn’t just history. This was a forgotten legacy, a part of the world that had shaped the present she knew, but one that had been wiped from memory by time and neglect. The stories of these rulers, their triumphs and tragedies, consumed her. It was like a fire had been lit within her, igniting a curiosity she hadn’t known she possessed.

For the first time in a long while, Lena felt something stirring inside her that wasn’t tied to duty or expectation. She was completely absorbed in the book—lost in the words, in the past, and in the captivating images they painted of ancient lands, people, and power. The world of forgotten kings and queens, of battles fought and won long before her time, pulled her in. It felt like she was touching a part of history that no one else had ever seen, and for a moment, she forgot where she was, even who she was.

Her usual reserve seemed to slip away, leaving her vulnerable to the allure of the past. For once, Lena felt like a spectator in her own life—nothing more than an observer, a dreamer transported to distant lands, and she couldn’t bring herself to stop reading.

As Lena continued to read, something began to shift within her. The stories of these kingdoms—these ancient realms—weren’t just about lands lost to time, rulers long forgotten, and the dust of centuries. They were about magic. Real, tangible magic. Not the kind of myth she had always been told about in whispered legends, not the tales passed down to scare children into behaving. No, this magic was practical, powerful, woven into the very fabric of these kingdoms.

Each kingdom was described in vivid detail, and what struck Lena most was that magic was not just an element of their culture—it was their foundation. It had been their strength, their weapon, their way of life. The pages described sorcerers who could manipulate the elements, kingdoms whose very borders were protected by ancient spells, and rulers who were gifted with powers that could alter reality itself. Lena felt a chill run through her as she read. This was real magic. Not stories of witches or wizards told around the hearth, but something far more substantial—something tangible and formidable.

She had always dreamed of magic, of the power to bend nature to her will, of casting spells that could change the world. It was a fantasy she had cherished, a hope that had lived quietly in her heart, something she thought was as impossible as flying. She had been taught that magic was nothing but myth, something invented by the old kingdoms to explain the unexplainable, something to pass the time with as stories of wonder and fantasy. But now, the words on the pages were telling her something different. Magic had been real. It had been practiced, honed, and used. The past she had been taught was filled with lies.

A tightening sensation began to grow in her chest as she read further, the stories of magic becoming more unsettling with every sentence. The magic was too powerful, too dangerous—more than anything her tutors had ever hinted at, more than her father had ever allowed to be spoken of. And then, a creeping feeling settled in the pit of her stomach, a sense that she wasn’t supposed to see this. This knowledge—this truth—had been hidden from her, kept from her for a reason.

The weight of the book in her hands grew heavier as her thoughts churned. She had always thought magic was a dream, a mere fantasy for children, but now the evidence of its existence was staring back at her, and the implications were unnerving. She could feel a knot of discomfort tightening in her chest, her pulse quickening. This wasn’t just history—this was a forbidden history, one that no one, not even her father, had ever mentioned.

Lena quickly skimmed through the pages, her hands trembling as she flipped faster, her mind reeling with the realization that she was holding something she wasn’t meant to see. This book was a secret. It wasn’t just the past that had been erased; it was the magic itself. She couldn’t shake the feeling that, somehow, her discovery had crossed a line—one she wasn’t sure she was ready to face.

Lena sat cross-legged by the arched window, her thin sleeping robe pooling around her knees, the cool night air brushing her skin. The stolen book rested in her lap like a weight, heavier than it had any right to be—its unmarked cover gleaming faintly in the moonlight, as if it knew it wasn’t meant to be here. As if it knew it had been taken.

Outside, the gardens slumbered in silver and shadow. The wind rustled the hedges and whispered through the trees, but Lena didn’t hear it. Her gaze was far away, unfocused, pinned to some spot on the opposite wall—but really, it was turned inward, staring down a rising storm in her chest.

Her fingers curled against the cover. The faint warmth of the pages still lingered in her skin.

Why did Kara have this? Why hadn’t she said anything?

Lena’s brows pinched together, lips slightly parted as if she might whisper the questions aloud, if only to hear how they sounded in the silence. But the words stayed trapped in her throat. Her mind kept pulling her backward—through every moment spent with Kara. Every night by the forge. Every glance that had meant more than it should have. Kara had always been steady. Trustworthy. Hers.

And yet, this book… this history—it was something else entirely. Something forbidden. Something hidden.

And Kara had kept it.

Lena felt the first pang of something sharp and twisting beneath her ribs—hurt. A quiet betrayal that left her chest aching. Kara had known Lena’s dreams: of far-off places, of something more than duty and stone walls. She’d listened. Nodded. Smiled. But she’d never told her this.

Never told her that it might be real. That it had been real.

And that meant one of two things.

Either Kara had lied. Or Kara wasn’t who Lena thought she was.

This wasn’t just a book of bedtime tales or forgotten myths. It was real—every word of it. Lena could feel it in the way the pages hummed beneath her fingertips, could see it in the careful ink strokes that described enchantments, sigils, lineages of spellcasters whose names had never once appeared in any of her royal histories. These were not stories spun to lull children to sleep. These were records. Truths. Proof.

Proof that magic had once thrived—not just in whispers and metaphor, but in practice. In bloodlines. In battles. Entire kingdoms shaped and ruled by magic, their power chronicled in detail so vivid it made her breath catch. Lena had always believed in the possibility, dared to hope that maybe, maybe magic had once existed. But she’d also been taught to put such thoughts away. Taught that they were childish. Dangerous. That magic had been nothing more than a myth—a relic crushed beneath the weight of progress and reason.

But this book said otherwise.

Proved otherwise.

And Kara had known. She must have known.

The realization crashed into her like ice water. A slow, creeping chill that settled in her lungs and rooted itself deep.

Kara—her confidant, her companion in the quiet hours, her forge-sister in the firelight—had kept this from her. All of it. Never once had she hinted. Never once had she let anything slip, even when Lena had looked her in the eye and spoken about her longing for more—more than duty, more than politics, more than the gray, stone-cold life laid out before her.

And Kara had let her. Had let her believe the world was small, ordinary, limited.

That hurt most of all.

And suddenly, Lena wasn’t just curious.

She was furious.

The kind of anger that starts as a tight knot in the chest and unfurls like wildfire—silent, consuming, leaving her breathless in its wake. The book lay open in her lap, but her hands had curled into fists around the edges of the pages, trembling just slightly.

What else had Kara hidden?

What else did she know?

Because no one—no one—just happens to have a book like this. No one casually stumbles upon forbidden history so ancient it’s been scrubbed from royal archives and forgotten by time... and then casually tucks it into a cluttered workbench like it’s just another tool.

Lena’s jaw clenched as her gaze dropped back to the pages. The swirling script gleamed faintly in the moonlight, looping across parchment that seemed older than the castle walls themselves. It spoke of empires carved by spells, of bloodlines that commanded the elements, of celestial gateways and kingdoms that could walk between worlds.

Names Lena had never seen in her studies. Lands that weren’t on any map. Magic that bent the sky and split the earth.

And all of it... hidden. Erased.

And Kara had this. Kara, who always deflected questions about her past. Kara, who showed up out of nowhere with a forge-fire smile and calloused hands that made impossible things feel real.

Lena’s heart pounded, louder and louder, matching the echo of a single, relentless thought that refused to be silenced:

Where was Kara really from?

Chapter Text

On her rare day off from the endless lessons and royal duties, Lena slipped quietly into the castle’s library, seeking solace in its familiar, comforting stillness. The air was thick with the musty scent of old parchment, leather bindings, and dust—smells she had grown so accustomed to that they had become a part of her. The library, dimly lit by flickering sconces on the stone walls, felt like a sanctuary, a refuge from the constant buzz of palace life.

Her footsteps echoed softly in the vast, open space, the sound muffled by the thick carpets that lined the floors. Lena’s eyes wandered across the rows of towering bookshelves, each shelf stacked high with countless volumes. She moved slowly, her fingers brushing the spines of the books as she passed, the tips of her fingers catching on the occasional fraying corner of a leather-bound cover. The act was almost ritualistic for her, a silent communion with the stories she had long since committed to memory. She had read every book in this library at least once, some of them multiple times. Hours and hours spent with her nose buried in the pages, escaping into worlds far beyond the cold stone walls of her castle.

The outside world had never truly belonged to her. It remained just out of reach, a dream glimpsed through stained-glass windows and half-told stories. So she’d learned to live through the pages instead. Tales of faraway kingdoms, daring escapes, and magic that shimmered just beneath the surface of every word. Within those stories, she had found comfort, adventure, hope.

And now, with the stolen book hidden beneath her mattress and the truth of real magic still too heavy to hold, she found herself returning to that quiet comfort. Not because it was true—but because, if she squinted hard enough, she could pretend. Pretend that the magic she’d uncovered was just another fairytale. That none of it was real.

Because in fairytales, magic was a wonder. It was beautiful and bright and always ended with the heroes safe and the world made whole. In those stories, the impossible didn’t come with shadows. And everyone, somehow, got their happy ending.

Her thoughts were a storm—whirling too fast, too loud to make sense of. Anger simmered just beneath her skin, sharp and hot, fueled by the sting of betrayal. Kara had lied to her—or at the very least, hidden something monumental. Something Lena had every right to know. But alongside the anger was something else, just as persistent: curiosity. That dangerous, gnawing need to understand, to uncover what had been kept from her.

And yet… she couldn’t confront Kara. Not yet. Not when her own emotions were still so tangled, like threads knotted too tightly to pull apart. If she faced Kara now, she didn’t know what would come out—shouted questions, bitter accusations, or worse, the kind of silence that said everything without a word. No, she needed time. Time to think, to breathe, to decide what she truly wanted from the girl who had become so much more than just her armor-smith. 

Lena pressed her palms into her lap, the cool silk of her gown bunching beneath tense fingers as her thoughts spiraled into chaos. The fabric wrinkled and twisted under her grip, but she barely noticed—too consumed by the storm of questions tearing through her mind. Why had no one told her? Why had her father—so steady, so unshakable—looked her in the eye all those years and told her magic was nothing but a myth? A bedtime fantasy. A relic swallowed by time and replaced by reason and rule.

She had believed him. Every word. She had hung on those truths like a child clinging to the safety of their blanket, never questioning, never doubting. She’d accepted the world as it was presented to her—quiet, orderly, stripped of wonder. Magic, she'd been told, belonged to stories. It had no place in the world anymore.

But now… now she held proof in her hands. Magic hadn’t vanished—it had been buried. Hidden. Intentionally. Guarded like a dangerous secret.

And secrets like that weren’t kept without purpose.

A chill rippled down her spine as the truth settled in, heavy and suffocating. This wasn’t just a forgotten page in history. It was a deliberate deception.

Had her father known all along? Had he stood in the throne room, crown heavy on his brow, and lied to her with that calm, commanding voice?

Had the entire court conspired to keep her blind? Wrapped her in soft lies about order and logic, while quietly silencing the truths that could crack the kingdom open at its foundation?

She didn’t know what was worse—that they had lied to her… or that they had never trusted her with the truth.

The thought made her chest tighten, like invisible hands were closing slowly around her ribcage. She had spent her entire life buried in books, clinging to stories of wonder and enchantment as if they were lifelines—dreaming of magic as though it belonged only to bedtime tales and faded legends. It had been her escape, her secret hope in the quiet hours when the castle walls felt more like prison bars.

And all the while, the real thing—the living, breathing truth of it—had pulsed just beyond her reach. Not lost. Not gone. Hidden. Kept from her not by time or fate, but by choice. By the very people who claimed to protect her.

That betrayal cut deeper than she expected.

And for what? For her safety? To keep her obedient? Quiet? Was it simply easier to raise a daughter on lies than to let her carry the burden of dangerous truths?

Or was it something more?

A darker reason. One no one dared to speak aloud.

Lena’s fingers tightened in her lap, knuckles white, her breath caught somewhere between fury and fear.

She didn’t know the answer.

And the worst part—the part that twisted inside her like a splinter—was that she wasn’t even sure she wanted to hear it.

The soft rustle of parchment and the warm flicker of candlelight had wrapped around Lena like a lullaby, lulling her into a trance. Hours slipped by unnoticed as her eyes followed the curling script on the page, her fingers tracing the worn edges of ancient words. Shadows crept longer across the stone floor, stretching like silent spectators beneath the dying light.

When she finally blinked and looked up, the sky outside her window had deepened into a bruised violet, the last smear of sunlight melting into the distant mountains. Twilight had arrived quietly, cloaking the world in muted blues and soft indigos. A cool breeze slipped through the cracks in the window panes, brushing her skin like a ghost of the day now gone.

Then, far off in the belly of the castle, the great bell sounded—its deep, resonant toll ringing out like a summons, steady and slow. One. Two. Three. Evening.

Dinner.

Lena sat still for a heartbeat longer, the weight of a random book she barely read still pressed against her lap, her thoughts slow to catch up with the present. She hadn’t even realized how late it had gotten.

With a reluctant sigh, Lena pushed herself to her feet, the movement slow and deliberate, as though even the simplest act required more effort than it should. She brushed invisible dust from her skirts, but the gesture felt hollow—her body moving through the motions while her mind remained tethered to the questions that gnawed at her insides. The weight in her chest hadn’t lifted—not since last night. It lingered, a heavy knot she couldn’t untangle, pulling tighter the more she thought about Kara, the book, her father, and the lies she had been fed her whole life. And it wouldn’t lift—not until she had answers.

The walk to the great hall stretched out before her, longer than it had ever felt. The castle’s stone corridors, once familiar and comforting, now seemed to close in around her, growing darker with each passing step. The flickering candlelight from sconces on the walls cast jagged shadows that seemed to stretch and twist, like silent figures reaching for her as she moved. The candelabras in the hallways flickered erratically, their flames dancing in the cool breeze that slipped through the cracks in the old stone. Lena’s shadow, elongated and eerie, stretched across the walls, dancing with a life of its own, as if it too were searching for answers.

The echo of her footsteps bounced off the cold, high walls, each tap reverberating in the silence like a loud reminder of the weight of her thoughts. The stillness around her pressed in, amplifying her uncertainty. Her thoughts spun in circles, questions spiraling around her like an endless whirlpool. Why had Kara kept the book hidden? What else had she been keeping from her? Why hadn’t anyone told her the truth?

The farther Lena walked, the heavier her heart became, the silence swallowing the world around her. The weight of the unknown pressed down on her like a physical force, and with each step, the castle seemed to grow more suffocating, more oppressive.

When Lena pushed open the heavy oak doors of the great hall, the familiar scent of roasted meat and spiced wine hit her like a wave—rich, savory, and inviting. But the allure of the feast did little to stir the gnawing emptiness in her stomach. The weight of her thoughts, her questions, drowned out the temptation.

Her father was already seated at the head of the long, polished dining table. The sight of him, as imposing as ever, made Lena’s chest tighten. His crown, typically perched atop his head, was placed beside him, forgotten for the moment. His sleeves were rolled up to reveal ink-stained fingers, his brow furrowed in concentration as he studied a thick stack of parchment. The lines on his face seemed deeper tonight, more etched than usual. He didn’t look up as she entered, his gaze fixed on the documents before him. His goblet sat untouched beside the parchment, a small pool of wine still shimmering at the bottom, and the plate of food before him—meat, bread, and vegetables—remained mostly undisturbed.

Lena hesitated only for a second before she walked to her seat at the table, the weight of each step seeming to drag her through the hollow space. As she pulled out the chair, the scraping of the legs against the stone floor was unnervingly loud in the quiet hall. It made her flinch, the sound sharp and foreign in the otherwise still atmosphere.

The hall, vast and towering, seemed to grow even larger in that moment, its vaulted ceilings disappearing into the shadows above. The high windows let in only a sliver of the fading twilight, casting a faint, cold light that stretched across the stone floors, accentuating the emptiness. The silence was suffocating, and the distance between herself and her father felt immeasurable.

Lena sank into her chair, her movements mechanical, almost automatic. The food in front of her, though mouthwatering, barely registered. She didn’t reach for it. The savory smells twisted in her stomach, but the knot of anxiety and confusion inside her made it impossible to eat. The unease coiled tighter with each passing second, and she found herself staring down at the plate, her fingers curling against the fabric of her gown, knowing she had to speak, but unsure of how to begin.

Her eyes flicked up to her father, his face illuminated by the warm, flickering glow of the chandeliers overhead. The soft light cast deep shadows across his weathered features, accentuating the sharp lines of his jaw and the tightness around his eyes. He looked every bit the king—stern, composed, and unreadable. The weight of his presence was as heavy as the room itself, suffocating and unyielding.

Lena swallowed hard, feeling the familiar tension rise in her chest. She had rehearsed this in her mind a thousand times, but now that the moment was finally here, the words seemed to hang in the air, unspoken and unreachable. Her heart pounded against her ribs, a steady rhythm that matched the swirling confusion in her mind.

She took a breath, summoning the courage that had been slowly building inside her all day. It felt like a small flame against the cold uncertainty, but it was enough to push her forward.

“Father,” she began, her voice low, almost swallowed by the vastness of the hall. The sound of it seemed to vanish the moment it left her lips, lost in the cold stone and echoing silence. “Can I ask you something?”

He didn’t look up from his parchments, his quill moving methodically across the page. His focus remained unbroken, his attention solely on the stack of documents before him. “If it’s about the trade route proposals again, talk to the council,” he muttered, the words mechanical, as though he had already anticipated her question and dismissed it before she even spoke.

Lena’s jaw tightened, but she pressed on. This was bigger than trade routes. Bigger than anything she had ever confronted with him. She swallowed again, her voice steadier now as she continued, “It’s not that.”

There was a brief pause, the silence hanging between them like a thick veil. Her father dipped his quill once more, the soft scrape of it against the parchment the only sound breaking the stillness. His eyes never left the page, his expression unreadable.

Lena’s heart beat louder in her ears, but she didn’t look away. This was her chance—she had to ask.

“It’s about… magic.”

The words felt foreign as they left her mouth, hanging in the air like a forbidden secret. For a moment, everything seemed to freeze—time itself holding its breath. Her father’s quill stopped mid-air, the scratching sound abruptly silenced. He set it down slowly, as if the act of placing it upon the desk was a deliberate movement that carried the weight of his rising tension.

Lena’s gaze never wavered, even as he slowly raised his eyes to meet hers. His expression was unreadable at first, but the longer he held her gaze, the more Lena saw the flicker of something she hadn't anticipated: a coldness, a darkness that made her stomach twist.

There was no warmth there. No love. Just a distant, calculating stare that made her feel smaller than she had ever felt.

“Have you been reading too many of those ridiculous fantasy books again?” he asked, his tone sharp, his words dripping with irritation. The question felt dismissive, as though the very notion of magic was beneath him, beneath their family.

Lena straightened in her seat, her spine rigid, trying to steady the pounding in her chest. She could feel the pressure mounting, the weight of her father’s gaze like a heavy stone. This was it—there was no turning back now.

“No,” she said, her voice firm, unwavering. “I’m not talking about stories. I mean real magic. The kind that used to exist. The kind they say was erased.” Her heart raced, her pulse quickening. “And old kingdoms—ones that aren’t in our histories. Whole nations that vanished.”

The silence that followed felt like it could suffocate her. It stretched, long and suffocating, as the tension between them grew heavier. She watched her father, every muscle in his face tightening as he absorbed her words. She could see the shift in his expression—his eyes darkening, his jaw clenching.

And then, finally, his stare turned cold. Dangerous.

Lena’s breath caught in her throat as he leaned slightly forward, his gaze narrowing, sending an unmistakable chill down her spine. The air in the room seemed to crackle with something unspoken, something ominous that made her blood run cold.

“Stop asking dumb questions,” he said, his voice flat, low, and final. The words hung in the air, thick with the weight of authority. “Magic is a lie told to children. There is no record of what you’re talking about, because it never existed.”

Lena didn’t blink. She didn’t flinch. Her eyes locked onto his, unwavering, even though the weight of his words pressed down on her chest like a vice.

She knew that tone. It was the same tone he used when he was cornered, when there was something he didn’t want to acknowledge—something he had hidden for far too long. The one he reserved for moments like this, when the truth was too dangerous, too raw to speak aloud. It was the voice of someone trying to bury something, to suppress a truth too sharp and jagged to face.

And suddenly, it all clicked. Every inconsistency, every whisper she had ever overheard, every fragment of doubt that had lingered in the back of her mind—now, it all made sense.

He was lying.

Right to her face.

Lena’s stomach churned, but she kept her gaze steady, not letting him see the way her heart trembled beneath the surface. His words no longer held power over her. Not anymore. She saw through the layers of falsehoods now. He couldn’t shield her from the truth any longer, no matter how hard he tried.

He was hiding something, and she was going to find out what.

—----------------------

Lena didn’t sleep.

She couldn’t.

After dinner—after her father’s clipped words and the suffocating silence that followed—she had drifted through the halls like a ghost, her footsteps silent, her mind deafening. The cold finality of his voice still echoed in her ears, sharper than any blade. Magic is a lie. It rang with certainty, the kind meant to silence all doubt. But now she knew better.

And lies didn’t settle easily in her chest.

She had returned to her chambers, but rest was impossible. She sat by the hearth instead, knees drawn to her chest, a blanket wrapped loosely around her shoulders. The flames had burned low, throwing long, twitching shadows across the floor. The gilded hands of the tall clock in the corner ticked forward with merciless patience, each second stretching into the next. Time felt suspended, like the entire castle had been wrapped in stillness, holding its breath.

Outside her window, the night was a deep, endless blue. A few stars blinked through the gaps in the clouds, but they offered no comfort.

She waited.

And listened.

The castle, usually brimming with noise during the day, began to still. The servants’ final rounds echoed faintly through the stone corridors—clinking trays, closing cupboards, hushed conversations. The distant murmur of the kitchens dwindled to silence. Somewhere down the east wing, she heard the low creak of armor and the steady cadence of the night guard making their rounds—boots soft against the worn rugs, metal lightly brushing against leather.

Eventually, even that faded.

And then, at last, came the sound she’d been waiting for—the muffled groan of hinges as her father’s chamber door creaked closed, followed by a soft, hollow click.

The west wing went silent.

Lena didn’t move at first. She sat still for a long moment, watching the final flame in the hearth die to embers, until the shadows no longer danced, only lingered. The lie her father had told her hadn’t faded with time—it had rooted deeper. And it had only one cure: truth.

It was time to find it.

She stood slowly, letting the blanket fall in a quiet heap at her feet. Her breath came out in a long, steady exhale as she reached for the dark cloak draped over her chair. It felt heavier tonight, as though it knew the weight of what she was about to do.

She moved quietly, slipping soft slippers onto her feet, the kind that wouldn’t make a sound on the stone floors. A quick glance toward the door, a silent promise to herself: No more waiting. No more pretending.

Then she was gone.

The castle was a different place at night. The torches in the sconces had burned low, and the grand chandeliers overhead were dimmed to a low amber glow. Their light wavered across the walls, casting shadows that danced and flickered with every step Lena took. The silence was thick, broken only by the occasional creak of wood or the distant groan of stone cooling in the night air.

She moved like a shadow, familiar with every turn and stairway, every hidden alcove. The library—the one place she usually sought comfort in—she passed by without hesitation. She already knew its contents, down to the crooked volumes shelved out of order on the eastern wall. That library had been curated for her, its shelves selected with intention. Safe. Tame. Controlled.

But tonight, she needed the truth. Raw, unfiltered, and unapproved.

So she didn’t go to the library.

She turned left and descended the spiral stair that curved behind the council chamber. At the bottom, past a locked wooden door she’d once seen her father enter alone, lay the study—the one place she had never been allowed to search freely.

Her father’s study.

The door was thick, carved from dark oak like much of the castle’s interior, its surface etched with worn sigils that time had nearly erased. Lena hesitated for only a heartbeat before pressing her palm to it. It opened with a low, weighty groan—not locked, but heavy, as if guarding the secrets within out of habit rather than hardware.

She slipped inside.

The scent hit her first. Not unpleasant, but dense—layers of aged parchment, dried ink, leather bindings, and something faintly metallic, like old blood or tarnished silver. The kind of smell that clung to the past and refused to let go.

The study was still lit.

Two candles burned low behind the grand oak desk, their flames flickering lazily as if half-asleep. Another cluster of melted stubs glowed faintly on the mantle above the hearth, their wax pooled and hardened into shapes like frozen tears. Her father had left them burning. He’d meant to come back.

The idea made her chest tighten.

She stepped further in, closing the door gently behind her. The room was quieter than the rest of the castle, muffled by thick rugs and high shelves that seemed to lean inward, watching. Books covered every wall—towering and tightly packed. These were not the polished, curated selections from the royal library. There was no order to them. No gilded labeling. Many had cracked spines and leather covers gone soft from decades of handling. Some were sealed with ribbons or clasps. Private. Untouched.

She moved quickly, though her eyes lingered longer than she meant them to. Her fingers glided along the shelves, brushing past unfamiliar titles in faded ink, some in languages she didn’t immediately recognize. Chronicles of the Border Reaches. Treatises on Temporal Theory. Accounts of the Verdant War. Nothing she’d seen before. Nothing she’d been allowed to see.

She leaned in, reading faster, fingers trailing over embossed lettering, eyes skimming spines for any word—anything that might confirm what the other book had started to unravel.

Because now, she wasn’t just searching out of curiosity.

She was hunting for proof.

When the shelves yielded no immediate answers—only maps of border skirmishes, outdated census records, and dry political treaties—Lena turned her attention to the desk.

The surface was cluttered in the way her father always left it: precise, but full. Papers stacked in neat piles, ink pots half-full, a quill still resting on a blotter where he’d left it drying. She moved with care, opening the drawers one by one, her hands light and deliberate. Every paper she lifted, every envelope she unfolded, she memorized its position before placing it back exactly as she’d found it.

Most of it was what she expected—state correspondence, decrees waiting for his seal, letters from nobles with too much to say and too little to offer. Dusty treaties, old council minutes, annotated reports. It was all meticulously kept.

And completely useless.

She leaned back, frustrated, her gaze lifting instinctively to the shelves above the desk—and there, something caught her eye.

A single book, high on the third shelf. It didn’t fit.

While the other volumes were bound in older leather, many bearing cracked spines and other languages, this one was fancier. Old. Its cover was cracked and dulled, the leather faded to a murky brown, edges worn thin like it had passed through many hands– but nonetheless royal.

Lena narrowed her eyes, heart beginning to race just a little. She dragged a chair quietly across the rug, climbed onto it, and stretched her hand toward the book. Her fingers closed around it, the leather dry and warm under her skin.

She pulled it down, the book heavier than it looked, and cradled it in both arms as she stepped carefully off the chair.

This one had been read—over and over. But not catalogued. Not displayed. Not meant to be found.

Which meant, more than likely, it was exactly what she was looking for.

She pulled it down, the weight solid in her arms, and settled it carefully onto the edge of the desk. Her fingers tingled with anticipation as she cracked the old cover open, the hinges groaning softly like the book itself hadn’t been opened in years.

The first page was inked in delicate, looping script. A title, simple and unadorned:

The Royal Line of House Luthor.

A lineage book.

Lena’s breath caught as she turned the first few pages. They were meticulous—columns of names, dates, and family ties written by steady hands, each generation recorded with reverent precision. The paper was thick, yellowed at the corners, and smelled faintly of ash and time.

She flipped through quickly at first, skimming the ancient ancestry of her house: dukes, kings, queens, all preserved in ink and calligraphy. Entire lives reduced to lines and marriages, alliances and heirs. Symbols in the margins indicated noble unions, wars won, treaties forged.

Eventually, she slowed, fingers brushing over the page that named her grandfather.

King Lachlan Luthor.

The script described him as bold and unyielding, a king who had ushered in a fragile peace through strength alone. Lena had heard whispers about him growing up—rarely from her father, more often from older courtiers and servants when they thought she wasn’t listening. A ruler with sharp eyes and a sharper mind. Stern. Cunning. Some even said ruthless.

She studied the page, eyes tracing the carefully recorded details of his reign, of her grandmother's death, of her father’s early life as prince. The ink here was darker, fresher, as though it had been touched up more recently.

But something about it made her uneasy.

There should’ve been more. More entries. More continuity.

But when she turned the next page—

It was torn.

Not just one page, but several. The edges were jagged, ripped hastily, the remnants still clinging to the binding like wounds left unhealed. Her heart dropped.

The last complete entry marked her father’s coronation.

Then… nothing.

No mention of her. No record of her birth. No delicate script detailing the arrival of a royal heir. No notes about the celebration, or the lineage continuing.

And worse—there was no mention of her mother either.

No name. No title. Not even a footnote to mark her existence.

It was as if she had never lived.

As if Lena had simply appeared one day, fully formed, with no beginning—no history of her own.

She sat frozen, the weight of the book in her lap suddenly unbearable. Every breath felt tight in her chest. The silence of the study pressed in like a closing door.

Why had someone gone to such lengths to erase them?

And what were they trying to hide?

If her deduction was right—those missing pages were about her.

Why were they removed? What was so dangerous, so important, that her very existence in this book had to be erased?

And more importantly… Who tore them out?

Her father? Or someone trying to hide something from him?

She clutched the book tighter to her chest, the weight of it suddenly suffocating. The lie went deeper than she thought.

And now, she needed to know the truth more than ever.

A sound pricked at her senses—soft, deliberate, but impossible to ignore.

Footsteps.

Lena’s head snapped up, her breath catching in her throat. Every muscle in her body went rigid, as if the very air had thickened around her. The comforting weight of the lineage book was still open in her lap, but now it felt like evidence—damning and dangerous.

Her heart pounded in her ears, thudding louder than it should have in the heavy silence of the study.

Without thinking, she snapped the book shut. The soft thud of parchment and leather echoed louder than expected, like a hammer strike in a chapel. She winced. Her hands moved quickly, trembling as she slipped the book back onto the shelf. It resisted slightly—like it didn’t belong anymore—and her fingers fumbled to adjust it, to make it look untouched.

She’d just taken a step back when another sound broke the hush.

A throat clearing—low, gruff, and unmistakably familiar.

Her stomach dropped.

It was her father.

The footsteps grew sharper, each one ringing out like a drumbeat in the silent halls. His boots tapped on the stone with that deliberate rhythm she knew so well—calm, controlled, and utterly unforgiving. Each step carried weight, not just of his presence but of his authority, of the years he had spent watching and waiting for anything out of place. Lena’s heart quickened, each thump in her chest a reminder that she was far from safe.

Her body moved instinctively, adrenaline flooding her veins as she spun toward the door. She reached for the heavy wooden handle, her fingers slick with nervous sweat. Her hands trembled as she pulled it closed, inch by agonizing inch, trying to silence the creaking hinges that groaned under her touch. The sound of her heart, thudding louder with every passing second, drowned out the faintest squeak of the door’s edge.

Then, just as the latch finally clicked into place, the golden glow of a candle flame seeped around the corner, stretching across the far wall. His candle.

No time.

Lena’s instincts kicked into overdrive. She darted forward, her steps light and swift, moving as silently as a shadow in the dark. The castle seemed to stretch out endlessly before her, corridors twisting like the tendrils of a spider’s web. Up ahead, a small alcove tucked behind a half-draped banner offered the only chance at cover. It wasn’t hidden, not completely, but it was her only option.

She sprinted toward it, breath quickening, her shoes barely making a sound on the cold stone floor. She reached the alcove just as the flicker of candlelight painted the edges of the hallway. Without a second thought, she pressed herself flat against the stone wall, every muscle tensed, every breath held so tightly it ached in her chest. The darkness enveloped her, the space between each beat of her heart stretching into an eternity.

The king rounded the corner a heartbeat later, his figure emerging from the shadows like a looming specter.

Lena held her breath, her eyes glued to the narrow gap between the curtain folds, watching as he passed by, his tall form illuminated by the flickering candlelight. His face was unreadable, a mask of calm authority, and his gaze remained fixed straight ahead, never once straying from his path. He moved with purpose, his boots clicking softly against the stone, every step deliberate and measured.

Lena’s body was frozen in place, every nerve on edge, barely daring to exhale as he approached. The tension in the air was thick, suffocating. But he didn’t stop. He didn’t turn. Not once did he glance in her direction.

He reached the study door, his hand briefly brushing the cold metal handle. Without hesitation, he pushed the door open with a soft creak, stepping inside. The flickering light from his candle cast a warm glow across the frame before he disappeared into the shadows of the room.

The door closed behind him with a muted click, leaving Lena in the cold silence of the hall. The light vanished with him, leaving nothing but the eerie stillness, and for a moment, Lena stood there, listening to the distant sound of his boots fading into the depths of the castle.

Lena exhaled shakily, her chest rising and falling with each labored breath. The rush of adrenaline still buzzed in her veins, leaving her limbs trembling, unsteady. Her heart pounded in her ears, a deafening drumbeat that echoed in the otherwise still, empty hall.

The hallway was once again silent, cloaked in darkness, but this silence felt different. It was no longer the comforting quiet of a place left undisturbed, a haven of solitude. No, this silence was oppressive. It felt like a weight pressing down on her chest, suffocating, making the shadows seem deeper, more menacing.

Something had changed. The illusion of safety that the castle's quiet usually provided had shattered. The silence no longer promised peace. Not anymore.

—----------------------

Sleep came to Lena in fragments.

It had always been this way.

Ever since her mother died, her dreams had never been quiet. They pressed into her like whispers through a keyhole—disjointed, fragmented, just out of reach. They came in riddles, in symbols she could never decipher, in voices that echoed from places she’d never been. Sometimes she’d wake with her hands shaking, a name on her lips she didn’t remember learning. Other nights, she awoke with a single word etched into her mind like a wound that wouldn't close.

She’d learned not to speak of them. Not to ask questions. Her father didn’t like questions.

So she bore them in silence, learned to carry their strange weight the same way she carried the ache of her mother’s absence—quietly, endlessly.

But tonight was different.

Something in the air felt charged, like the sky before a storm.

She twisted beneath the covers, breath shallow, the blanket wrapped tight around her legs like ivy choking a branch. Sweat gathered at her hairline and beaded along her temples, slick and cold, even as the breeze from her open window whispered in. Her body was rigid—fingers clenched into the sheets, shoulders drawn tight, jaw locked in silent resistance.

Her face twitched. Her legs jerked.

And behind her eyes, the world burned.

Flashes.

Too fast to anchor. Too vivid to deny.

Screams.

Not one—but many. Dozens. Hundreds. The kind that tore through the throat with finality. Smoke curled across a crimson sky, black and thick, swallowing the stars. It moved like something alive—serpents writhing around shattered rooftops and splintered beams. A village—or what had once been one—was drowning in flame. Homes collapsed in on themselves. Livestock fled wildly down alleys. The ground was painted with blood.

Soldiers stormed through the streets in chaotic waves, faceless behind blackened helms, their armor soaked with ash and something darker. Swords glinted in the firelight, wet and red. Boots slammed against stone, the rhythm like a drumbeat of death.

Blasts of light, unnatural colors, tore across the horizon, crackling in the air like static. Blue. Gold. Violet. Power that Lena had never seen. It seared through walls and flesh alike, leaving nothing untouched.

A woman screamed—a raw, guttural sound—and was silenced mid-breath.

A man clutched his chest, mouth open in disbelief before folding to the earth.

And then—

A pause in the storm.

And then she saw her.

A little girl. Blonde. Alone. Curled between two torn sacks of grain, her tiny frame trembling, her cheeks streaked with soot and tears. Her eyes were red from crying—but it was the blue of them that caught Lena’s breath.

Unmistakable. Bright. Striking.

Their eyes met—just for a heartbeat—and the world around them seemed to stop.

It was like the rest of the dream—the fire, the screaming, the storm of ash—blurred and bled into silence. All that remained was that child. That girl. Small, shaking, curled between burlap sacks like she could disappear into them if she just stayed still enough.

But her eyes—gods, her eyes—were so bright. So piercing. Blue like glacial ice and just as fragile. Lena felt the weight of them instantly, as if the girl had reached straight into her chest and seized her heartbeat in her tiny fists.

She wasn’t just crying. She wasn’t just afraid.

She was pleading.

Begging.

For help. For mercy. For something Lena didn’t yet understand—something deeper than fear, something older than pain. It wasn’t the vague disorientation of dreams. It was real. A soul calling out.

A plea that somehow pierced time, space, reason.

Lena’s heart lurched, sharp and sudden.

She wanted to move. To run to her. To lift the girl up and shield her from the chaos all around. But her feet wouldn’t move. Her mouth wouldn’t open. She stood paralyzed, a silent witness behind invisible glass, no more substantial than a shadow.

She had dreamt before—oh, many times. Strange dreams. Restless dreams. Visions that felt like echoes of lives unlived. But those were foggy. Weightless. Ephemeral things that melted away with the morning sun.

This one had teeth.

This one gripped her.

It didn’t just haunt her—it hunted her, dragged its claws down the length of her spine and settled somewhere deep behind her ribs. It rooted in her like something ancient. Something waiting.

This wasn’t just imagination.

This wasn’t just a bad dream.

This was real.

And then it broke.

The world shattered in a roar of flame and noise and light—then silence.

Lena shot upright, a choked gasp tearing from her lips. Her sheets were tangled tight around her, soaked through with sweat. Her chest heaved, lungs clawing for air. The scream from the dream still sat like a stone in her throat, half-swallowed.

Her room was dark. Still. The fire in the hearth had long gone out. Only the moonlight touched the edge of her windowsill.

But Lena couldn’t shake the weight of those eyes.

Of that girl.

Of the feeling in her chest that something—everything—was about to change.