The soft chill of morning slipped through the stone walls, curling like a serpent around my ankles.
I woke in the small, ancient room carved into the heart of Nymerial's deepest forest — a hidden place few remembered and fewer dared approach. Here, the magic was old, wild, and brutal, the perfect place to raise a weapon in silence.
The ceiling above me was high and cracked with age, the stones veined with moss and faintly glowing runes. A single narrow window let in a sliver of cold light, casting jagged shadows across the polished wooden floor.
It wasn't luxurious, but it wasn't poverty either. Everything I needed was here, placed carefully by the few loyal to me. Silent proof that while the world thought me dead, I was being prepared to reclaim everything they stole.
I slid from the bed, bare feet whispering against the cold floor. Every muscle ached deliciously from yesterday's training, a reminder of the beast growing under my skin.
The adjoining washroom offered no luxury either. I stepped into the icy stream of the shower, letting it bite into my skin, dragging the last threads of sleep from my bones. Pain had long ago become a companion rather than a curse.
Afterward, I dressed in silence, pulling on black fitted combat pants made of enchanted leather, flexible and silent. A deep blood-red blouse, lightweight but strong, sleeves tied at the wrists with threads of gold. Over it, a black corset vest embroidered with delicate silver runes that whispered of ancient power. Black boots rose to my knees, worn but elegant. Twin knives strapped to my thighs, and a slim dagger tucked behind the corset.
My hair was tied back loosely, though stubborn curls tumbled free, defiant as ever. I didn't bother taming them. Some things weren't meant to be caged.
Downstairs, the kitchen glowed with the low warmth of the fire. Stone walls, sturdy furniture, a sense of timelessness. It wasn't rich. It was real.
Sylas was perched on the counter, eating an apple like he was king of the damned world.
"Morning, nightmare," he greeted with a grin.
I grabbed bread and a pear from the table, ignoring him.
"Two days left," he said between bites. "Then you meet with Aven."
I didn't respond.
"You know what that means," Sylas continued. "Aven's not just anyone. Darian trusts him. Trusts him enough to decide if you're ready to step out of the shadows and into the fire."
My jaw tightened. Of course, I knew. Aven had watched from afar for years. He would see the scars etched into me, the steel in my bones, and judge whether I was sharp enough to carve my kingdom back from the traitors who stole it.
Only a handful knew I was alive. Darian's most loyal men. No more. My very existence was a threat to the world that betrayed my blood.
"Today," Sylas said, tossing the apple core into the fire, "we're testing endurance. Again."
I smirked. Good.
One of my earlier trials had been surviving three days alone in the wildest part of Nymerial, with nothing but a knife and my wits. I came back bloody, starving, furious.
And stronger.
The thought of my twenty-first birthday next week burned in my chest like wildfire.
Not because of the crown. Not because of the ceremony.
Because it meant I could finally start.
Finally, I would step out of the ashes.
Finally, I would tear down the kingdoms built on my family's bones.
They thought they could kill me before I could crawl.
They will choke on the blood of their mistake.
I felt the grin curl my lips, sharp and wild.
"Good," I said, meeting Sylas' amused gaze.
"Let them come."
Sylas dropped off the counter, brushing nonexistent dust from his jacket. "Speaking of letting them come, how about you let me come beat your ass into the ground for a few hours?"
I snorted. "You're going to need more than fairy tricks to keep up with me today."
"Fairy tricks?" Sylas clutched his chest in mock horror. "I'm wounded. Truly."
"You'll be wounded when I put you on your back."
"Promises, promises," he muttered, grabbing two wooden practice swords from the rack by the door.
He tossed one at me without warning. I caught it easily, twirling it once through my fingers.
Outside, the mist clung low to the ground, the ancient trees of Nymerial whispering above us. It was colder today, the kind of cold that seeped into your bones if you let it.
Sylas didn't go easy. Not today.
He struck faster, harder, without mercy, forcing me to move quicker, think sharper. He drove me back, then pulled unexpected feints, laughing whenever I nearly lost my footing.
"Come on, princess!" he barked, circling. "You think Darian's going to cradle you when the world tries to gut you?"
I snarled and launched at him, fury singing through my veins.
"There she is," Sylas said approvingly as our blades clashed again and again. "There's my little monster."
And gods help them—
I would make sure the world never forgot her.