War had been raging between the two nations for almost a decade, and neither side seemed ready to raise the white flag or start any semblance of peace negotiations. So much had been lost, so many loved ones tortured and slain, and all for the greed of that madman.
The sun was slowly setting as she slit the throat of the last of the enemy troops on top of the rocky mountain. Below was Lake Angra, said to grant victory if you prayed to the Daeva, a demon spirit that resided within it. 'What a load of bullshit, ' she scoffed, looking disdainfully at it. It did grant something, but it wasn't victory, or maybe it was, depending on who you asked. She turned away, her eyes fixed on the sky now. She closed them and took a deep breath. The orange sky looked especially beautiful. The mixture of deep oranges, fiery reds, and soft yellows, creating a stunning display as the sun dove into the lake, reminded her of the veil and an ominous set of jewellery her father had given her.
That thought soured the moment. Her eyes opened out of frustration
'Your Highness,' someone called out. 'We should be leaving.'
She could finally go home and rest. Her shoulder throbbed with heat where they had cut her earlier—a shallow wound she'd tend to with balm and bandages when they returned to camp.
"Your Highness," he said again, quieter this time. She almost laughed at the soldier's tentative tone. It reminded her of a child afraid of interrupting their parent mid-conversation, though she was certain he had at least five years on her.
The careful deference, the way his voice dropped as if volume alone might offend—it would've been endearing if she weren't so bone-tired. She turned from the sunset to look down at him. The young soldier waited below, breath fogging in impatient bursts, helmet tucked under his arm so his face was visible. He straightened when her gaze found his. He was new enough to fear her; she liked that. Fear was good. It kept people in line—and certain things at bay.
As she prepared to climb down, a gentle breeze brought with it a metallic scent; the tang of iron and blood made her nose twitch.
It didn't sicken her as much anymore; if anything, it calmed her, gave her certainty- we all have blood, hence we all die.
'Let's get going then,' she called down with a tired half smile, revealing the dimples on her cheeks and crinkles around her eyes. Her long hair, now loose, danced in the gentle breeze.
She picked her way down the rocky slope, the young soldier waiting below. At the base, she mounted her horse.
She'd wanted to linger just a moment longer. Sunsets were all she had lately, that and her brother's songs and endless tales of what she liked to call 'nonsense conquest'. Her smile widened at the thought as she continued her descent.
The journey back to camp passed in comfortable silence, the young soldier keeping a respectful distance behind her. She could feel his nervous energy and see from the corner of her eye the way he kept glancing at her bloodied sword. She grinned.
The camp came into view as they crested the hill—a sprawling collection of tents and flickering fires that had become more familiar to her than the palace. She could smell the smoke and hear the distant chatter of soldiers sharing overexaggerated stories and wine. Home, in its way.
"Your Highness," Captain Marcellus approached as she dismounted, his face creased with concern. "Your father …" He didn't have to continue. Her father wanted to see her. Her grip tightened on her horse's reins. She sighed. What was he even doing here?
The victory was barely an hour old, and already he wanted to discuss the next move? Or perhaps he'd heard something she hadn't.
"Did he say why?" she asked, petting her horse who seemed to have sensed her anger, though she already knew the answer would be no.
Marcellus shook his head. "Just that it was urgent. He's waiting in the command tent with..." he hesitated, "with the Queen."
The stepmother. She raised her brow. That was interesting. The woman rarely involved herself in military matters unless it concerned her own children's futures.
"I'll clean up first," she said, handing the reins of the horse over to the young soldier who walked off and dismissing Captain Marcellus with a nod.
"Your Highness, he said immediately."
"Then he can wait five more minutes," she cut him off, then smiled.
She made her way through the camp toward her tent, boots crunching softly over gravel and ash. The camp had begun to settle into its nighttime rhythm—fires crackling, quiet laughter drifting from nearby tents, the clink of armor and tired greetings rising as she passed.
She nodded acknowledgments as soldiers called out greetings. "Well fought, my lady," from a grizzled veteran cleaning his blade. "Your Highness" from one of the newer recruits, a woman barely out of her teens who still looked shaken from her first real battle. A seasoned female soldier raised her hand in a respectful salute as she passed.
When she reached her tent and pushed aside the flap, her stomach dropped. Her father's traveling chest sat beside her cot, and worse still—her stepmother's ornate jewelry box gleamed on the small table. Why were they here? Her jaw tightened as she began working the buckles of her armor, mind racing through possibilities, none of them good.
She was nearly finished with the chest piece when a light gust of wind swept through the tent, knocking over the copper cup on her table with a sharp clatter. She groaned angrily and bent to pick it up.
A shadow shifted near the tent's entrance—too fluid, too deliberate to be natural.
"Sister dear, you have that particular glow of someone who's had a very satisfying day of slaughter."
She smiled, forgetting her frustration, and turned toward the familiar voice. Her brother stood near the tent's entrance, arms crossed, looking as smugly amused as always—and completely impossible, since she knew he was miles away.
"How did you sneak a charm into their things?" she asked, walking over to her bed in the corner, after placing the cup back on the table. She gestured vaguely at the luggage.
"I have no idea what you mean," he replied coyly.
"Right," she drawled, her voice dripping with sarcasm, and swiftly picked up a pillow and threw it at him. It sailed straight through his chest and hit the tent wall behind him with a soft thud.
"Rude," he said, entirely unbothered by the pillow sailing through his chest. "The stepmother hardly ever goes anywhere without her jewelry," he said, hinting at the charmed object.
"You know, for someone who just finished a battle, you've still got so much energy." He mocked.
She rolled her eyes.
Another one of his tricks. His image was flawless: his voice, his gestures, even the light in his eyes. The only giveaway? You couldn't touch him. But she'd learned to spot the telltale signs from a young age.
Almost no one could tell the difference, because he retained some form of physical influence over objects, over people, over the world around him.
If he managed to slip a personal item nearby, or imbue any object and place it close, he could project an image of himself anywhere within that vicinity.
"Father's been asking about you every hour; he actually started pacing when the sun began to set." He picked up one of the hand knives from her weapon rack, playfully testing its balance on two fingers.
She paused, gauntlets halfway off. "Pacing?"
"Oh yes. Quite agitated. The stepmother arrived this morning with the boys—did you know?" he asked, pointing the knife towards her. She raised a brow; obviously, she didn't.
"They're all in the command tent now, having what I can only assume is a fascinating discussion about military strategy." His tone was light, but she caught the warning underneath.
"What do you think he wants?"
He placed the knife carefully back on the rack and turned away from her. "Your guess is as good as mine. You know how he is—crafty as an old fox." The last part, he said mockingly under his breath