I was still scrubbing the blood from my armor when the rumors began.
Not even a full day had passed. The battlefield still stank of sweat, iron, and death. Ravens circled overhead, feasting on those too slow to crawl away. My men—if they could be called mine—moved about the field in a stunned hush, piling bodies, burying the dead, tending to the wounded. The Sevilan flag had fallen.
And yet, word had already taken flight.
They didn't know my name. But names didn't matter, not when myth rose faster than history.
They called me the Ghost Commander.
The War-Witch.
The Goddess in Red.
A woman with eyes that had no pupil, no iris—just the pure white fury of heavens too long defied. A woman with hair not of old age , not of gold, but of snow kissed by moonlight.—silver-white and shining like silk in flame. A blade in human form. A curse given shape.
They said I came from the old gods. That I was born of shadow and vengeance. That I drank blood to stay alive.
They got much of it wrong.
And yet… they weren't entirely wrong.
---
The king did not write me.
He never does.
But General Crane returned to the capital and sent word: Thre battle is won, Sevila kneels.The weapon has proven herself useful.
Weapon.
That's all I was to him.
A sword he kept hidden until the time came to throw it into war and hope it broke something.
But kings speak to other kings. And other kings… they listen.
Word traveled westward.
Through Delyra's mountain passes and moss-covered forests, through sun-scorched roads and seafaring ports. Bards sang of me before I ever returned home. Drunk soldiers swore they had seen me ride like thunder, split a man clean in half with a single swing, vanish into smoke and reappear behind enemy lines like some demon-spawn.
The truth was simpler.
I fought.
And I didn't die.
That, in this world, was enough to become legend.
---
I was summoned back to the border camp two weeks later. Not because they feared my safety—no. Because emissaries had begun to arrive.
Kings.
Lords.
Warlords.
Men who had never cared about Delyra's cursed daughter now sent gifts and gold, promises of allegiance, oaths of kinship. Some offered trade routes. Others offered command over mercenaries. One even offered a palace in the south and asked—through trembling scribes—if I'd consider marrying his son.
I laughed when I read that one.
Hard.
Crane did not.
"You need to take this seriously, girl," he said, his jaw clenched, eyes like chipped stone. "You're not just a ghost anymore. You're a chess piece."
"I'm no one's piece," I said.
He leaned forward, lowering his voice. "You don't get to choose that. Not anymore. The moment you took the field and won, you became currency. Influence. Every lord without an heir wants to claim you. Every king without a sword wants to hold you. And every coward who fears war… wants to be your friend."
I looked him in the eye.
"Then let them fear me instead."
---
And fear me they did.
But not all fears bow in silence.
Some plot.
Some whisper behind closed walls, where poisoned wine passes hands and letters are sent with wax seals that smell like old secrets.
I began to hear rumors.
Not about me—about plans for me.
Some said the King of Aerath had offered ten thousand gold for my capture. Others claimed spies from Talaria had been sent to learn the truth about the woman who killed an army. I even heard a whisper that my father had received an anonymous letter offering to "remove the curse" he once cast away.
The letter burned easily in my fire.
But what disturbed me most wasn't the plots or the threats.
It was how little they thought of me.
As if I could be bartered. Owned. Delivered to a lord's bed or throne like a gem taken from a vault.
No.
I would never be owned again.
---One night, while walking the perimeter of our camp beneath the cold stars, I overheard two soldiers whispering.
They didn't see me at first.
"I swear to the gods, she doesn't bleed like we do," one said. "Cut through five men, didn't flinch once. I saw her standing in the middle of the field after the fight—just standing there like she was listening to the wind."
"Think she's one of the Forgotten?" the other muttered. "Those old godborn? They say some of them survived. Came back through bloodlines."
"Nah," the first one scoffed. "She's worse. She knows she's cursed. That's the scary part. Ain't nothing more dangerous than a cursed thing that's proud of it."
I stepped into the firelight then.
They fell silent.
Didn't even dare breathe.
I didn't speak. Just looked at them, eyes glowing faintly beneath my hood.
And then I said softly, "You're right."
I turned and walked away.
They didn't sleep that night.
---
As the days passed, I began training the troops again. Those who had once doubted me now fought to impress me. But I didn't want their admiration. I wanted their loyalty. Loyalty built in sweat, not awe.
Crane watched me from a distance.
He rarely smiled. He still called me "girl." But I saw it in his eyes.
He knew what I was becoming.
And he feared what would come next.
Because there is something kings and generals understand better than anyone.
Power that is unclaimed is dangerous.
But power that knows itself?
That is deadly.
---
And now they all knew.
I was no longer a ghost. No longer a rumor hiding in the woods.
I was a name that crossed borders.
A weapon they could not sheath.
A woman born to be silenced… now walking among men who had ruled unchecked for too long.
They feared me.
And still—they wanted me.
Some to crown.
Some to chain.
Some to kill.
But I was not theirs to choose from.
I was Delyra's daughter.
The cursed child returned.
And I would carve my place into the history they tried to erase—with fire, blood, and a name that the gods themselves would learn to say with reverence.
Delbeyrah.