Chase stared at John like he’d just seen a ghost.

  “How the hell are you still alive?” he asked, eyes wide with disbelief.

  John didn’t flinch. He threw back his glass of deep red liquor, the kind that smelled like fire and regret. “Because I’m not a little bitch,” he said, slamming the glass down with a grin.

  Chase barked a laugh. “Don’t look down on me!” he growled, mirroring the motion. The liquid burned like molten iron going down. He coughed, wiped his forehead, and signaled for another.

  Behind the counter, the dragon-blooded bartender—a hulking man with obsidian scales across his arms and smoke curling from his nostrils—let out a low chuckle. “Try not to puke on my floor this time,” he rumbled, handing them fresh glasses.

  The two men raised them in an unspoken toast and downed them in sync, clinking the rims like warriors before battle.

  “I still can’t believe they let us back in here,” John said with a lazy grin. His words were slower now, warmed by the alcohol. “Last time we left, that mage looked ready to hex us both into frogs.”

  Chase groaned. “That woman hated us on principle. This guy?”—he jabbed a thumb at the bartender—“at least he appreciates good drinkers.”

  “Or fools with fat wallets,” John muttered, squinting at his dwindling pouch of Credit Gems. “How many did we even drink? I’m not made of money, man.”

  “What’s a little reckless spending between friends?” Chase grinned, eyes sparkling. John let out a laugh, and for a moment, the weight of their lives slipped off their shoulders.

  “That’s nice,” John said after a beat, more quietly. His smile turned thoughtful. “After all the bullshit I’ve been through lately… just sitting down, laughing… yeah. I needed this.”

  Chase leaned forward, his expression sobering. “What did happen to you? I swear it’s been, what—two days since I last saw you? I’ve been buried in assignments.”

  John's smile faded, like a candle guttering in wind. He looked down into his drink, the red liquid swirling like blood in a bowl.

  Images surged behind his eyes:

  Ziraya abruptly silenced.

  The beast that tore through the ruins like a storm with teeth.

  The ancient skull and its haunting pull.

  Sarah screaming, the thing latching onto her—

  “I… ended up exploring an underwater ruin,” he said quietly. His fingers tightened around the glass.

  Chase blinked. “Seriously? Like, a real ruin?”

  “It was a whole city,” John said, voice distant. “Buried beneath the waves, in Duskveil.”

  “I leave you alone for two damn days,” Chase said, shaking his head in disbelief, “and you find an ancient city? What are you, cursed?”

  “I’m telling you, it was real,” John said, forcing a smirk. “Duskveil was like hell turned inside out. Heat, sand, dry air that burns your lungs—constant wind kicking sand in your face like the world itself is mad at you.”

  Chase whistled. “That sounds miserable.”

  “It was.” John’s voice dropped an octave. “And that was before the ruin.”

  Chase frowned but didn’t push. He recognized the haunted edge in John’s tone. “You really don’t do things halfway, do you?”

  John didn’t answer right away. He swirled his drink, watching the light refract through the red.

  “What was it like?” Chase asked, his voice gentler now. “The city?”

  John hesitated. Then, with a breath: “Quiet. Like the whole place had drowned centuries ago, and the silence never left. Lights flickering in the deep, old engravings half-erased by pressure and time. You could feel the ghosts, even if nothing moved. And then we found the vault—” He stopped himself, eyes unfocused.

  “And?”

  “There was something in it. Something wrong. Ancient. Hungry.”

  A long pause.

  “…Shit,” Chase muttered. “No wonder you needed a drink.”

  John managed a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah. Just one drink.”

  “Damn,” Chase said, leaning back in his seat. “Here I was, feeling proud of my little excursions to Verdanthia.”

  “Verdanthia?” John perked up, happy for the change in subject.

  “Our homeland,” Chase said with a smile, running a hand through his hair. “It’s… huge. You stand on a plain and the sky stretches forever. You smell trees that have been there since the world began. It’s wild and beautiful—and deadly as hell.”

  John raised an eyebrow. “Define deadly.”

  “There’s a bug there,” Chase said solemnly. “Looks like a stick. Hangs in the trees. Drops on you and peels your skin off like a banana.”

  John gagged into his cup. “Are you serious?”

  “I wish I wasn’t.” Chase chuckled. “They’re rare near the cities. But there are worse things.”

  “And you miss that?” John asked.

  “Yeah,” Chase said, and the honesty in his voice was surprising. “Freedom’s different there. You can feel it in your bones.”

  John nodded. “Duskveil wasn’t like that. Everything felt… boxed in. Cities made of concrete. Lifeless. Just survival.”

  Chase was quiet for a moment, letting the weight of John's words settle. Then he smiled again. “Still. You found an underwater city, man. That’s the kind of story you don’t forget.”

  “No,” John said softly. “You don’t.”

  Their glasses clinked again, softer this time. Not in celebration—just in recognition. Two men carrying different scars, meeting at the crossroads of memory and drink.

  “It was terrifying, honestly.” John said, swirling the red liquid in his glass. “The whole city felt like it was groaning above us. You could hear stone cracking with every step. Then boom—whole thing started coming down. We barely made it back to the sub before it collapsed behind us.”

  Chase blinked. “Wait. Sub? As in... submarine?”

  John nodded, completely straight-faced. “Yeah. Dwarven-built. The woman who made it wouldn’t shut up about it—talked like she’d reinvented travel itself.”

  Chase leaned back, hand dragging down his face. “A submarine. Of course.” He shook his head, half-laughing. “I told you, we’re practically medieval compared to human societies.”

  John smirked, setting his empty glass down with a soft clink. “She was proud, I’ll give her that.”

  Chase grinned as he signaled for another round. “Was she there with you?”

  John raised a brow, not following—until Chase shot him a teasing look.

  “Oh.” John groaned. “Yeah. She was there.”

  “And? Any tiny, half-mage half-lizard babies on the way?”

  “Get fucked,” John laughed, shaking his head. “It wasn’t like that. We worked together. Mostly didn’t kill each other.”

  Chase snorted. “That is romantic by my standards.”

  John opened his mouth to shoot back, but the smile faded from his face—just a flicker, just enough to see the shadow in his eyes. His voice dropped. “We did find what we were looking for though… eventually.” He looked away, jaw tense for a heartbeat. “And we ran into Imps,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

  “Imps?” Chase blinked. “Real ones? Like the ones from the stories, with the claws and the illusions and the weird teeth?”

  John nodded slowly, taking a long sip of his drink. “Yeah. And attitude to match. Nasty little bastards. Still, I walked away with a million Credits after all was said and done.”

  Chase nearly choked on his liquor. “A million?!”

  “I mean… I had a million,” John corrected, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish grin. “Then I decided to try my hand at enchanting. Found this weird little shop, bought a high-end engraving station from some fae in a red top hat.”

  Chase’s expression froze. “…What kind of red top hat?”

  “Like, tall, shiny, way too dramatic for the space he was in,” John said. “He never gave me a name, but I’ve looked him up. People call him the Redcap Merchant.”

  Chase’s glass stopped halfway to his mouth. “You met the Redcap Merchant?”

  John shrugged. “I mean, he was pushy and weird. Forced the station on me like he’d been waiting for me. Soon as I left and turned around, the shop was gone. Just vanished. I hope it wasn’t a giant scam and that those rumors I found hold some truth.”

  Chase stared at him. “That wasn’t a scam, man. That was a legend. People write songs about him. You bought something from him?”

  “Yeah,” John said. “He said the thing was made of… uh… Velazurite?”

  Chase slammed his glass on the counter, mouth open. “You got a full station made of Velazurite?”

  “I didn’t really check,” John admitted. “I just thought it looked neat. Kind of a glowing blue with color lines that shift if you stare too long.”

  Chase looked like he’d been physically slapped. “John… Velazurite is absurdly rare. There’s literally a waiting list from the Royal Court of Faerie. My mother’s been trying to get a sliver for ten years, and you’re out here polishing your fingernails on an entire engraving station made of the stuff?!”

  John blinked. “Wait, it’s that valuable?”

  “Yes, it’s that valuable! It’s so rare that people kill just for rumors of it.” Chase dropped his voice, glancing around. “You didn’t… tell anyone else about this, right?”

  John looked around as if realizing for the first time that others might be listening. “This place is warded, right?”

  Chase let out a breath. “It should be. Man, you’re a walking urban legend at this point.”

  “I guess… a lot’s happened,” John said with a weak laugh. “Honestly, it all felt normal at the time. Doesn’t sound so normal when I say it out loud, huh?”

  Chase leaned back and stared at his friend. “John, I’ve known you for years. And this still tops every crazy thing you’ve done.”

  John chuckled, rubbing his temples. “I guess I just haven’t had time to process it all.”

  Chase gave him a look. “You fought collapsing cities, imps, mysterious fae merchants, and now you own arcane tech people dream of. I think your brain’s still playing catch-up.”

  John opened his mouth—then closed it again. “So,” he said instead, “what about you? What kept you so busy?”

  Chase groaned like someone just punched his soul. “Don’t remind me. After the warehouse incident, my mother stuck me with the most boring duties imaginable. Inventory counts. Document runs. I’ve traveled more in the past week than I did all year—without any underwater ruins or ancient death traps.”

  “Still sounds like a grind,” John said, chuckling.

  “You’re not wrong,” Chase muttered. “But at least no one tried to peel my skin off. Yet.”

  They raised their drinks again—this time in mutual sympathy.

  “Couldn’t the people at those locations just do the tasks?” John raised a brow as he swirled his drink. “Sounds like a bureaucratic nightmare.”

  Chase scoffed. “Efficiency isn’t the point. It’s punishment with extra steps. We screwed up, so now we’re getting dragged across the entire territory fetching scrolls and counting crates.” He gave a tired shrug. “Might last another month—unless your scaly girl’s clan throws another tantrum.”

  John’s ears flushed a little at the mention. “It’s not like that,” he muttered, eyes flicking away. Ziraya’s smile flashed across his mind, uninvited. “A-Anyway,” he coughed, reaching for his glass. “Why are your families even fighting in the first place?”

  Chase leaned back with a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of generations. “Old story,” he said, waving a hand vaguely in the air. “Older than me. Older than my mother, probably—and she’s creeping up on a century.”

  John blinked. “She’s a hundred?”

  “Hidden World, remember?” Chase grinned. “We age differently.”

  “Right, right,” John nodded, still not quite used to that kind of math.

  “Anyway,” Chase continued, “it’s textbook territory politics. Land boundaries shifting, power grabs, resource hoarding. There’ve been raids, skirmishes, full-blown wars. It’s not personal… until it is.”

  John nodded slowly, his gaze drifting as he imagined Ziraya in the middle of that long, bitter history. And then he looked back at Chase—his friend, his anchor to something normal.

  “Talk about impossible choices,” John muttered.

  Chase caught the shift in his expression and offered a wry smile. “I’m not gonna ask what’s going on between you two.”

  “I told you, it’s not—” John began, but Chase raised a hand, smirking.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  “Let me finish.” He leaned forward, voice low. “I think she’s manipulating you. But you’re stubborn. And I can’t stop you, can I? Just… if things go to hell between the Scalebound and the Wolfheart, I need you to stay neutral. Until you figure things out.”

  John hesitated, then nodded. “I won’t fight you. You're my friend. And I’d prefer to avoid being vaporized in a magic war, thanks.” He smirked. “Besides, I’ve seen you fight. Pretty sure I wouldn’t last ten seconds.”

  “Flattery won’t save you,” Chase chuckled, but his eyes searched John's face for sincerity. “Still… I needed to hear it.”

  John nodded again. “You’ve got it.”

  Chase leaned back, but the tension didn’t quite leave his shoulders. “You know,” he said, his tone lighter again, “I’ve met her before. Ziraya. A few times, during those awful negotiations. Always with that ice-cold stare, like she was already ten steps ahead.”

  “She’s not—”

  “She stopped in the middle of the street once, just to glare at me,” Chase chuckled. “Real drama queen. You can see it in the way she carries herself. And the Scalebound aren’t exactly known for moderation. If her father ever finds out that you and her…”

  “Chase,” John warned.

  “I’m just saying,” Chase raised both hands in mock surrender, flashing a lopsided grin. “He’ll kill you without blinking. Dragon-blooded don’t do forgiveness. They do vengeance.”

  John snorted and stole a quick glance at the glowing blue interface in the corner of his vision. “Would take him a few tries,” he muttered under his breath.

  “What was that?” Chase asked.

  “Nothing,” John smiled faintly. “Just saying… she told me the same thing. We—”

  “I knew it!” Chase exploded, pounding a hand on the bar just as John took a sip—causing him to choke and spit out a mouthful of drink.

  “You son of a—” John sputtered, wiping his chin. “I made enchanted bullets, Chase. You want to be my test subject?”

  “Relax, I’m just messing with you!” Chase howled with laughter, clapping him on the back. “Seriously though—”

  His sentence died in his throat.

  His body tensed, like a wire pulled taut. The smile drained from his face, leaving something colder, sharper behind.

  “...Shit,” he muttered, fingers twitching.

  John straightened. “What’s wrong?”

  “I just got a ping. Urgent.” Chase stood so fast his chair scraped against the floor. “I have to go. Now.”

  John blinked. “Wait—what’s going on?”

  “No time.” Chase’s voice was clipped, tight with urgency. He was already halfway to the door.

  “I’ll cover the tab,” John called after him.

  “Thanks!” Chase tossed over his shoulder—and then he was gone, vanishing into a blur that scattered wind in his wake.

  John sat there a moment longer, heart still racing from the sudden shift. The bar felt colder without him. “I hope it’s not something bad,” he murmured, tossing a glowing credit gem to the bartender before taking a final sip.

  The drink burned less than the silence that followed.

  “Should I follow him?” John muttered as he stepped out of the bar, a cigarette already pressed between his lips. The neon haze of the Bazaar hit him like a wall—crowds surging, voices clashing, a thousand glowing ads screaming for attention overhead. It was alive, chaotic, electric.

  But Chase was gone.

  John exhaled, a sharp stream of smoke curling through the stale air. “Nevermind,” he said, though his eyes kept searching the crowd for a familiar blur. Nothing.

  “Alright,” he muttered to himself, flicking the cigarette and walking into the swarm. “Time to get moving.”

  By the time he reached the portal, the artificial lights of the Bazaar had given way to the cold, clammy air of the maintenance tunnel beneath a fast-food chain on Earth. A grime-coated door was flung open, and John stepped through.

  Straight into the Ship.

  His boots clicked softly against the polished floor, and instantly, that old, oppressive cheeriness washed over him like syrup over spoiled bread. The Ship’s soft white lighting brightened automatically to greet him. Synthetic air with a hint of lemon-and-plastic filled his lungs, but it only made the bile rise in his throat.

  The door sealed behind him with a hiss.

  He swallowed hard.

  One step. Another. Then he collapsed into the pilot’s seat, eyes fixed forward as the console blinked to life. His fingers hovered above the controls, but didn’t move. The air felt too still, too quiet, like the moment before a storm—or a memory.

  His gaze dropped to his hand.

  It was shaking.

  He clenched it into a fist, hard enough that his nails bit into his palm.

  And then it hit.

  He saw himself again—sliced in half. The scene burst into his mind with all the force of a detonation. Blood. Screaming. The ground stained with his insides.

  The buzz of a sawblade roared to life in his ears.

  He gasped. Panic coiled in his chest like a snake, striking through him in flashes of fire. Phantom pain seared across every inch of his skin, as if nerves remembered what his mind begged to forget. He reached for his P50 blindly, desperate for something solid—something real.

  The metal felt cold. Grounding. His grip tightened until his knuckles turned white.

  The moment passed like a crashing wave retreating from shore, leaving John slumped in his chair, gasping. Sweat clung to his brow. His eyes found the cigarette he’d dropped, its ember crushed beneath his boot.

  “Fuck,” he whispered, pressing his palms against his forehead. “Get it together.”

  He forced himself upright. “Deep breaths,” he muttered, doing the opposite of what he felt—leaning back, pretending he had control.

  His heart still thundered in his chest like a war drum.

  “Anyways,” he said, the word brittle in the empty room, “I need to find something to do, don’t I?” His hand drifted across the Ship’s smooth console, fingertips brushing the familiar levers and buttons. The Ship didn’t answer, but the silence was telling enough.

  “Maybe I should take a vacation,” he mused aloud, though his voice was hoarse. “Somewhere far from all this mess. Maybe a resort with no magic, no enemies, and no goddamn memories.”

  He tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling—bright, clean, clinical.

  “I’ve got a entire worlds at my fingertips… and all I wanna do is hide in here.”

  His voice cracked.

  Then his eyes narrowed, gaze cutting to the glowing interface.

  “I bet this is your doing, isn’t it?” he said to the Ship, voice low, accusatory. “You’re in my head. Aren’t you?”

  The Ship said nothing. It never did.

  “Anyway, it’s not like I—” His Terminal lit up.

  Ziraya: We need to talk.

  John stared at the message. His thumb hovered over the reply field.

  And for a moment, the silence of the Ship felt even deeper than before.

  A hour ago—at the very heart of the Scalebound compound.

  The air itself seemed to hold its breath.

  Atop a carved wooden platform, wreathed in shadows of curling dragon motifs, Vaeryn Scalebound sat on a throne forged of dark gold and silent judgment. His blade—long, lacquered black and edged in steel so old it whispered with blood memory—rested across his knees. He surveyed the crowd below not with pride, but with certainty. As if all this was inevitable. As if nothing here could ever defy the weight of tradition.

  Beneath him, hundreds of dragon-blooded knelt, row upon row in flawless formation. Their ceremonial armor gleamed with mirror polish, gaudy in places—tassels of deep crimson, chains of delicate gold looping from scabbards to pauldrons. The crowd was made of lords, generals, matrons, and delegates from bound families, each absorbed by the Scalebound name through marriage or conquest.

  No one moved. No one dared to breathe louder than protocol allowed.

  Then the doors slammed open.

  Two maids bowed so low their foreheads kissed the stone floor as Ziraya stepped into the dying light of day.

  Her robe shimmered like woven sunlight—pure white, trimmed in gold, so luminous it caught the amber glow of dusk and bent it around her like a halo. For a moment, she looked less like a warrior and more like a vision. A divine icon meant to be revered, not obeyed.

  “Good luck, young mistress,” whispered Irelia, one of the maids, barely audible over the collective intake of breath from the crowd.

  Ziraya gave her a flicker of a smile—tight-lipped, more a muscle twitch than any real joy. Her amber eyes scanned the sea of kneeling forms. So many familiar faces. So many masks. Every one of them had made it here within a day. Just to watch her perform.

  “To think they dropped everything for this,” she murmured, voice dry. “Don’t they have better things to do?”

  But the moment her father’s gaze found her—sharp, scorching, immutable—the small smirk vanished from her lips. It was like being pinned under a lance of molten steel. She straightened, spine rigid with training, every movement rehearsed.

  Not too slow. That would show reluctance. Not too fast. That would show rebellion.

  Each step forward was a calculation.

  Her right hand dropped instinctively to the hilt of her sword—the dark relic from the sunken ruins, its edge thrumming faintly beneath her touch. The Authority of Bonding stirred in response, coiling around her like an old friend with a bitter smile. Once a curse. Now… a part of her. Inseparable. Essential.

  “Let’s get this over with,” she muttered, jaw tight.

  Ziraya stepped into the clearing and stopped, still as stone beneath the weight of hundreds of eyes. At that moment, Vaeryn rose, his blade drawn with terrifying grace, and the air changed.

  “I have gathered you all today!” he bellowed, his voice shaking the sky.

  The words weren’t spoken—they were delivered, like hammer blows to the ribs. A pressure dropped over the crowd like a second gravity. Ziraya felt it slam into her chest, pressing into her sternum like a vice. Even the strongest warriors among them bowed lower.

  “In the hallowed halls of our blood! In the legacy that binds us tighter than flesh!” Vaeryn slammed his foot down, and the platform itself trembled. “Today is a grand day for the Scalebound family—for our undying legacy!”

  The crowd erupted into applause, thunderous and mechanical, as if even the clapping had been choreographed generations ago.

  Ziraya stood firm, heart pounding behind her ribs like a trapped bird.

  Then came the words.

  “Today, I announce that my beloved successor has been chosen by a sword!” Vaeryn roared. “An exceptional weapon! As expected of Ziraya Scalebound, heir to our throne!”

  A second wave of applause crashed down. Louder. Feverish.

  Ziraya stepped forward, every muscle wound tight with ceremony. She halted before her father and bowed low, presenting her blade across raised palms—a gesture older than the banners that hung behind them.

  “You honor me, Father,” she said, her voice clear, perfect, detached. Just as she had practiced. Hundreds of times.

  Vaeryn grunted in approval, and from his belt, he withdrew a thin knife. No longer than a finger. No thicker than a lie.

  “Present your hand,” he ordered, voice suddenly knife-sharp.

  The ringing in Ziraya’s ears spiked. But she didn’t flinch. She didn’t blink. Her left hand rose slowly from beneath her sword, palm up.

  And she waited for the sting.

  Vaeryn’s arm moved like lightning.

  Steel kissed flesh.

  Ziraya barely had time to flinch before pain exploded through her fingers. A hiss escaped her clenched teeth as blood welled up—bright, fast, and hot—from each fingertip but the thumb. The wounds weren’t shallow. They stung deep, throbbing in rhythm with her racing heart.

  The sacred robe—white as moonlight—drank her blood greedily. As if alive, the enchanted fabric pulled the crimson into itself, weaving glowing sigils and serpentine glyphs that shimmered along the hem and cuffs. It felt like her very soul was being stitched into the garment.

  She stood still.

  She had to.

  Her legs trembled beneath the weight of pain, pressure, and something worse—expectation. Like centuries of duty had wrapped chains around her ankles and spine, anchoring her to this gilded stage.

  Vaeryn nodded, his expression unreadable as he sheathed the needle-thin blade. “Raise your head,” he thundered. “For you are now fully blooded, a daughter worthy of the Scalebound name!”

  Ziraya lifted her face, meeting her father's gaze. His eyes—hard and empty of warmth—scanned her with the cold satisfaction of a craftsman admiring his finished work.

  Then, in a flicker of motion too fast to follow, he was gone—back atop his golden throne, seated above them all.

  Even her.

  The compound fell into hushed reverence.

  Then his voice returned, cutting through the silence like a cleaver.

  “I will use this grand occasion,” Vaeryn declared, rising again, “to make an announcement.”

  Ziraya’s heart skipped a beat.

  No one had told her anything beyond the ceremony.

  He didn’t wait. “As you all know, my daughter bears a rare strength. Ancestral blood flows through her like fire! The Great Dragon himself has touched her spirit! I, Vaeryn Scalebound, will not allow such a legacy to go squandered!”

  His arms rose. The wind stilled.

  “Spread the word to every highborn house of our kind! I offer the hand of my daughter in marriage!”

  The compound erupted.

  A thunderclap of cheers. Cries of joy. Armor clattered with the force of celebration.

  Ziraya stood frozen.

  The world blurred.

  Even as healers knelt around her, casting gentle spells to seal the wounds on her bleeding fingers, she couldn’t feel it. Couldn’t feel anything but the echo of her father’s words crashing again and again inside her skull like war drums.

  Marriage. Bargained away. Packaged and gifted like a ceremonial weapon.

  Her body moved on its own. She let the maids guide her through the winding halls, her blood-slick fingers twitching uselessly at her sides. Her face was unreadable—but her eyes were glassy, vacant, like a mirror that refused to reflect.

  “Young mistress?” Irelia’s soft voice tried to pull her back. “It was a beautiful ceremony. You did so well.”

  “I—Right,” Ziraya murmured, offering a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

  Irelia frowned. “Are your fingers hurting? I can have the healers—”

  “No. It’s not that.” Ziraya pulled her hand away gently, flinching as if even kindness might hurt.

  “You can talk to me,” Irelia said with a familiar, motherly warmth. “You know that.”

  Ziraya looked down, her gaze distant—haunted. A certain cocky mercenary flashed through her mind. He was the only one who saw her as more than her name. The only one who knew what she truly was.

  Authority begets Authority.

  Sarah’s voice—the voice of the possessed—rang in her ears like prophecy. Like a bell tolling for her freedom.

  She looked around the opulent chamber, its every curve and carving a declaration of power and bloodline. But to her, it was just a cage. Ornate. Immaculate. Unescapable.

  “I…” Her voice cracked. “I don’t want to get married.”

  Irelia froze, blinking. “Young mistress? What—what are you saying?”

  Ziraya turned to her, expression twisted with confusion and rising fury. “Is it that hard to understand? I don’t want this!”

  “But it’s an honor,” Irelia replied gently. “With your lineage, your husband will be someone great. You’ll want for nothing.”

  “And?” Ziraya’s voice sharpened. “Look around. Do I look like I want for anything now?”

  “Well, no, but—”

  Ziraya’s voice quivered as she cut her off. “Then what is this for? What was all of it for? The training? The rituals? The obedience? I gave everything—everything—to become what he wanted.” Her fists clenched. “And for what? So I could be sold off to the highest bidder while everyone cheers like I should be grateful?”

  “I...” Irelia stepped back slightly, taken aback.

  “You smiled,” Ziraya whispered bitterly. “You smiled when he said it.”

  Irelia opened her mouth to explain, but Ziraya shook her head, eyes now glistening with tears.

  “I thought… I thought you were different. I thought you cared. You knew about the missions, the sneaking out, the training behind his back. You helped me. You knew me.”

  “Of course I care—”

  “You don’t!” Ziraya snapped. Her voice cracked like a whip, raw and trembling. “You’re just like the rest of them. I was stupid to think otherwise.”

  “Ziraya, please,” Irelia said, reaching out with a shaking hand.

  “Don’t touch me!” The young woman recoiled, rage blazing behind her eyes. “Leave my room, servant.” The word spat from her lips like poison. “That’s an order.”

  Irelia stood in stunned silence, her eyes wide, face pale.

  “Please…” she whispered, but the pain in Ziraya’s eyes said there was nothing left to say.

  Irelia bowed her head, hands trembling as she turned and quietly left the room—her footsteps light, as if afraid they might wake something broken.

  The door clicked shut behind her.

  And Ziraya stood alone in her golden prison, her fists trembling, her breath uneven, the taste of betrayal still bitter on her tongue.

  Ziraya stood frozen before the tall mirror, her breath fogging the glass as she stared at the woman in the bloodstained robe.

  Not a woman. A prisoner.

  Her throat tightened. She clenched her jaw to hold back the sob clawing its way up. Her eyes dropped to the white ceremonial fabric, once pristine, now stiff with dried blood—her blood. It hadn’t stopped drinking even after the ceremony was over. The threads had soaked it in like wine spilled across snow.

  With a snarl, she tore at the robe. The seams screamed as she ripped it down the middle, pulling and yanking until the cloth came apart in ragged strips. The remnants fell to the polished floor like dead leaves in winter. She dropped to her knees, pressed her palm to the pile, and activated her Authority. A pulse of power flickered beneath her skin. The threads hissed into nothingness, leaving only a scorched outline on the floor.

  Gone. Like the future they’d tried to wrap around her shoulders.

  Her body trembled—not with fear, but with fury.

  She shot to her feet, stormed to her wardrobe, and tore it open so hard the hinges groaned. Her fingers flew, pulling out a tight black tunic reinforced with thin plates of darkened steel, the kind she used when she’d sneak out and pretend she was just another mercenary. As the layers hugged her frame, she felt something in her soul tighten with purpose.

  She grabbed her gloves, sliding them on with sharp, practiced motions, then stalked toward her bed. One shove and it skidded across the room, slamming against the wall with a thud. Ziraya dropped to her knees beside a nondescript tile, wedged her claw into the seam, and pried it loose.

  Beneath was her cache.

  “Am I really doing this?” she whispered, voice barely audible over the thudding of her heart. It beat like war drums now.

  Her fingers hesitated over the soft brown cloak within. Light as breath, fine as spider-silk, it shimmered faintly under the light. Glamour weaved into every thread—illusion, concealment, misdirection. She wrapped it around her shoulders and felt its magic stir, curling around her like a second skin.

  A flicker of doubt wormed into her mind—images of gilded halls and grand banquets, of a husband she’d never choose and children she’d be expected to bear. A life of playing the part. Always smiling. Always obedient. Until, at last, she faded into some dull, quiet nothingness.

  Her fists clenched.

  Something ancient and raw awakened in her chest—a storm without name. Her very blood recoiled at the future laid before her. Her very soul rebelled.

  Ziraya reached into the cache and retrieved the old wooden box. Her fingers trembled as she opened it. Inside lay a slender bracelet—silver, worn smooth, set with a single shifting gem that shimmered like trapped lightning. She lifted it with reverence and pressed it to her heart.

  “I’m sorry, Mother.” Her voice cracked as the tears came. “But I can’t live like this.”

  She slipped it onto her wrist and felt its familiar weight ground her. With a ragged breath, she grabbed her old Terminal. Her thumb hovered over the screen. The long list of sent messages stared back at her. She exhaled sharply and let her Authority flare.

  The device sparked, then crumbled in her hand—ashes of a life she was leaving behind.

  She pulled out a new Terminal—fresh, untouched, anonymous. Just one contact inside despite being brand new, as she strangely expected.

  She typed only four words: We need to talk.

  Then she shoved it into her cloak and turned toward the far wall.

  Beyond that wall lay the outer barrier of the Scalebound estate. Beyond that—freedom.

  Her pulse surged. She took one step back. Two.

  “Let’s get to it.”

  With a roar, she sprinted forward, her Authority bursting around her. The wall stood no chance. She shattered through it, her body slipping through matter like a blade through silk. Behind her, only a scorched outline of her form remained, burned into the stone.

  Wind rushed in to greet her, wild and feral as gathered mana behind her. The air magic ignited, forming a vortex beneath her feet that catapulted her forward. The world smeared into color and motion. Her eyes stung. Her lungs burned.

  And she laughed.

  The wards that had hummed around her since birth were gone. She didn’t feel their weight pressing on her bones. For the first time in her life, she was untethered.

  She crushed a glass bead in her palm—air magic flared—and in the blink of an eye, she shot into the skies like a comet.

  The ground vanished beneath her.

  No guards. No orders. No expectations.

  The compound disappeared behind her in a blur, and she didn’t so much as glance back.

  Ziraya Scalebound was no more.

  Now, there was only Ziraya.