The gates of Delyra yawned open like the mouth of a great beast, stone jaws stretching wide to consume me whole.
I passed through them alone.
My cloak dragged across the gravel path, soaked in dried blood—some mine, some theirs. My breath came shallow, every step weighted by pain. The arrow wound in my side had closed thanks to a crude salve I'd packed in my saddle, but it still burned like fire licked bone. The gash on my shoulder, less merciful, throbbed with every heartbeat, as if mocking the fact that I was still alive.
Alive when I wasn't supposed to be.
I had ridden through the night, dragging my battered body past sleeping hills and ghost-silent rivers, following the road that curled toward Delyra like a vein to the heart of a monster. And now here I was, at the belly of it.
No one greeted me.
No horns. No banners. Just the city, watching.
The guards stationed along the walls averted their eyes as I passed. They recognized me—not as the princess, not even as the warrior who had bled to defend them. No, they recognized me as a problem. An omen. Something cursed and inconvenient that refused to die.
I kept walking.
Each step rang louder than the last, echoing off stone and silence. Delyra hadn't changed. The capital still smelled of cold steel and false civility, of iron and incense, of masks behind masks. Even the sky above it looked different—like it held its breath around this place, afraid to exhale.
People stepped aside as I entered the city proper. Merchants pretended to sweep. Bakers turned their faces toward their ovens. Children peeked from behind mothers' skirts only to be yanked away.
I wasn't royalty here.
I was something worse.
A reminder.
Of war. Of rebellion. Of blood that wouldn't stay buried.
I didn't flinch. I didn't speak. I just walked.
Toward the palace.
Toward him.
---
The palace of Delyra rose from the stone like the spine of a dead god—towering spires, arched walkways, and pillars that reached like fingers trying to clutch the sky. The gates were open, not in welcome, but in expectation.
They knew I was coming.
I left my horse at the entrance, barely able to dismount without collapsing. My legs shook. My vision blurred. But I would not let this place see me fall. Not yet.
Inside, the halls were too clean. Too polished. As if the blood that had been spilled for these walls could be scrubbed away with enough marble and perfume.
Servants scurried past me like shadows. Eyes down. Breaths held. One girl paused when she caught sight of the dried blood on my face. Her hand trembled. I offered her a nod. She ran.
So much for home.
I reached the war hall in silence.
Two guards stood at its towering doors. They didn't question me. Didn't announce me. They just opened the doors, like they'd been instructed to the moment I arrived.
And there he was.
King Dematricus.
My father.
He stood at the far end of the hall, bathed in golden light from the stained glass windows that lined the high walls. Behind him, the great banner of Delyra hung like a silent accusation—wolf's skull, spears, and flame. His armor gleamed like he'd never tasted battle. His crown was polished, heavy with jewels and cruelty.
I stepped inside.
He didn't smile.
"Daughter."
His voice was calm. Cold. The kind of cold that lies beneath the surface of still lakes—the kind that pulls you under before you even realize you're drowning.
I didn't bow.
"Father," I answered.
"You're late."
I bled the entire way here, I wanted to scream. I fought for my life. I killed for your name. But all I said was:
"I came alone. As summoned."
His eyes narrowed slightly. "And yet, you reek of blood."
I didn't answer.
"Five men," he said, walking toward me. "Sent from the east. Talarian assassins."
So he knew.
"You're still alive," he added.
I straightened despite the pain. "Disappointed?"
He stopped a few feet from me. Looked me over. My armor, cracked and burned. My hair, tangled with blood. My face, hollowed by exhaustion.
"No," he said finally. "But surprised."
He circled me like a predator weighing its kill.
"I didn't summon you to punish you," he said. "Not this time."
"How kind."
"I summoned you… because your mother's condition is worsening."
The words hit harder than the assassins ever could.
My heart stuttered.
"The healers say there may not be much time left."
I swallowed the scream building in my chest.
"Then let me stay with her."
"No."
He turned from me, pacing toward the high window.
"You'll serve me, Delbeyrah," he said. "As commander. As sword. As daughter. And in return, I will find a way to bring her back."
I froze.
"Swear yourself to me fully," he said. "No questions. No resistance. Become what you were born to be—not a ghost, not a rebel, but a weapon. My weapon."
My fists clenched.
"And if I do," I asked, voice barely a whisper, "you'll save her?"
He turned, and for the first time, I saw something almost like honesty in his gaze. Or maybe it was just ambition pretending to be love.
"I'll try," he said. "With everything Delyra has to offer."
I didn't trust him. I didn't believe in miracles. But I believed in my mother.
And I had already accepted my fate.
Even death, if it meant she could live.
I nodded once.
"Then I'm yours," I said. "For as long as she breathes."
He smiled.
And the doors behind me closed like the mouth of a coffin.