The year was one the stars had long refused to speak of.

The sky over Velmora, a land carved by war and ruled by fire, was dyed a permanent crimson each dusk. Not by sun—but by smoke. The kind born from battles no one questioned anymore. Only one name echoed through its halls of power:

General Saryna Velka.

She stood tall on the palace balcony, dressed not in silks, but in obsidian-black armor lined with gold—a mark of command earned in blood. Her eyes, sharp as broken glass, scanned the training fields below. Men bowed when she passed. Even kings paused their tongues when she spoke. she knew how to tame those monsters.

“Where is Unit 31?” she asked, voice low, deadly.

A captain at her side stammered. “Arriving now, General.”

Among them marched Rivaan, newly transferred from the Northern Border, where frost bit harder than any blade. His presence was quiet—shoulders tense, jaw set, face unreadable. He moved like someone trained to kill, yet taught not to feel.

But when he looked up and saw her standing above—the woman whose name was etched into every war song and warning—he did something dangerous.

He felt.

Not admiration. Not fear. Something else. Something reckless.

Their eyes met. Hers narrowed.

“You’re late,” she said sharply as she descended the stone steps. “Name?”

“Rivaan Dros, General.”

She studied him for a beat longer than necessary. Reminding herself her position she straightened up yet now her voice cold and calculated.

“Dros... The boy from Frostbane.”

“Yes, General.”

“They say you held the line when your commander fled.”

“I followed orders until he broke them.”

Her lip twitched—almost approval, almost nothing or almost impressed.

“Then you’ll follow mine now.”

"Got that?"

Yes, General.

She smirked not showing clearly, yet one could see easily.

Good boy.

Saryna turned, her cloak sweeping the dust behind her as she strode across the training yard. Rivaan followed, silent but alert. Every movement of hers was calculated, deliberate — the kind of precision only earned from command, not taught in academies.

“You’ll serve in my primary guard until I decide if you’re worth more,” she said without glancing at him.

“Yes, General.”

“You speak as if carved from stone,” she muttered. “I prefer soldiers who bleed when they’re cut.”

“I bleed when ordered, General.”

That caught her attention. She stopped, turned, and studied him again — this time longer. There was no sarcasm in his tone, just brutal honesty, the kind that most men lacked and most leaders feared.

A small smirk rose to her lips.

“You’ll learn not to speak like that when the Council is around,” she said. “They don’t take well to men who think.”

“I don’t think, General,” he replied. “I obey.”

She didn’t smile. She didn’t frown either. It was the quiet between storms, the silence between drumbeats of war.

“Tomorrow,” she said, turning away again, “we ride for the Western Cliffs. A rebel faction’s made camp in the ruins of Valker’s Hold. They won’t expect us this early.”

He didn’t ask questions. Good. She hated when men questioned her strategy. Valker’s Hold was cursed — or so they said. A place where kings once fell, and generals vanished without a trace. But she didn’t fear curses. She had survived worse: betrayal, poison, love.

By nightfall, the camp was lit with fire pits, steel ringing against steel. Rivaan sat alone sharpening his blade while others laughed and drank. He didn’t belong, and he knew it. But that wasn’t new.

He wasn’t made for brotherhood. He was made for orders.

Across the courtyard, he saw her again — sitting at a table with scrolls and maps. Her face was illuminated by lantern-light. No crown on her head, yet she looked more royal than any monarch he had ever bowed to. Alone, always alone, even among her men. As if the position she held had stripped her of the right to rest.

He turned away — but not fast enough.

“Soldier,” her voice cut through the camp. “You keep watching me.”

He rose quickly, approaching her.

“I didn’t mean to, General.”

“Good. I don’t tolerate intentions.” She pushed a map toward him. “You’ve been to Valker’s Hold before?”

He nodded. “Years ago. The terrain’s cracked and hollow. Footing is dangerous near the eastern ridge.”

She nodded once. “Then you’ll ride ahead with me tomorrow. The others will flank from the southern woods. You will speak only when spoken to, and you will not die without permission. Understood?”

“Yes, General.”

She dismissed him without another word, already back to planning, already lost in wars that had not yet begun.

And as Rivaan returned to his seat near the fire, he didn’t feel warmth. Not from the flames, not from his body. Only a chill that ran deeper than the night — a chill born not from fear, but the feeling that the woman he would someday die for had already written his name into her end.

And maybe, just maybe —

he would take her down with him.

The morning came cloaked in silver fog. It curled over the hills like coiled serpents, veiling the land in stillness. Horses exhaled steam into the chill air, their riders silent, eyes sharp. Armor clinked in restrained motion, swords strapped and secured.

Saryna sat astride a midnight-black mare, her cloak billowing slightly in the breeze. She wore no helmet, only a braided circlet of iron around her brow. Her gaze cut through fog as if it were smoke.

“Ready the front line,” she commanded.

Rivaan approached, mounted on a lean grey warhorse. His movements were disciplined, expression unreadable. His fingers curled around the reins, knuckles pale. Saryna glanced at him but said nothing until they began to ride.

The company rode in silence.

The trees thinned as they neared the Western Cliffs. The earth was dry and cracked, and the path narrowed between cliffsides that leaned like sleeping giants. Valker’s Hold loomed ahead — a ruin of broken spires and half-sunken towers, its walls choked in wild vines and silence. No birds. No wind. Only that unnatural stillness.

Saryna raised her fist. The company halted.

She and Rivaan rode ahead alone.

“This place reeks of rot,” she murmured.

Rivaan surveyed the landscape. “There.” He pointed to a crumbling archway beside the collapsed west gate. “That opening leads to the old priest quarters. If they’re hiding, that’s where they’ll be.”

“Good.” Her hand moved to her hilt. “Stay close.”

They entered the ruins. Valker’s Hold had once been a temple-fortress. Now it was dust, history, and shadow. Their horses' hooves echoed faintly against stone. Inside the archway, the world shifted: temperature dropped, light dimmed. The scent of iron lingered in the air.

Footsteps.

Not theirs.

Saryna turned sharply. “Draw.”

Steel rasped free. Shadows moved from behind a shattered wall. Three figures, then five. Armed rebels, faces half-masked, eyes desperate.

They didn’t shout. They charged.

Rivaan blocked the first strike, countering with a deadly precision. Saryna moved like a flame—blades whirling, cloak dancing with each motion. Together, they carved through the first wave.

Then came more.

Ten rebels to Fifteen more.

Saryna fought without hesitation, but a blade grazed her side. Rivaan saw the blood, rage flashing in his eyes. He pushed forward, shielding her without command.

“Fall back,” she ordered.

“Not until you do.”

They fought shoulder to shoulder until the rebel leader appeared. Older. Scarred. Eyes bitter.

“You,” he hissed at Saryna. “The butcher of Dalwyn.”

She didn’t flinch. “And you must be the coward who left his men to die.”

They clashed. Her blade met his with fury. Rivaan tried to intervene, but another rebel intercepted him. Blades rang, blood spilled. At last, Saryna landed a fatal blow, her sword through the rebel leader’s heart.

Silence fell again.

Bodies surrounded them, still warm. Rivaan looked to her. Her shoulder bled, but she stood firm.

“You disobeyed my order,” she said.

“I did.”

“Why?”

“Because I didn’t want you to die.”

She stepped close. Their eyes met. Her breath caught for a second, then she turned away feeling something warm in her heart and muttered.

"Weird."

“Next time,” she continued, voice tight, “you die if I say so.”

But they both knew something else had cracked in the ruins that day. Not stone. Not sword.

Something far more dangerous.

Something like destiny.

The grand hall of Velmora’s palace shimmered in golden brilliance. Tall obsidian pillars lined either side of a deep crimson carpet, and guards in silver-plated armor stood motionless. Above all, the throne—carved from iron and brimstone—held the aging yet sharp-eyed King Lauren Veran of Velmora.

Saryna knelt before him, blood from her battle cleaned but her armor still scuffed. She didn’t care for appearances. Only results.

Lauren Veran, the King’s voice rang through the hall. “General Saryna Velka, the Empire recognizes your swift command at Valker’s Hold. You led with fire, returned with victory. Rise.”

She stood.

To his left, the crown prince, Auren Veran,

clapped softly, smile pleasant but too polished. He always appeared charming—especially to Saryna. Too attentive, too courteous, offering her praise even in private council. But behind that warmth was something sad. A watchful eye knowing he will lose. A love she didn’t welcome.

What she didn’t yet know was why the king would always praise her. It wasn’t her brilliance or strength that intrigued him. It was his prince Auren Veran, the quiet, sharp-eyed boy who had once pointed at a battlefield drawing and whispered, “She looks like a queen.”

Lauren’s pride would never allow a soldier to rise so high—but he had seen the way Auren looked at her. And so the king played along, offering support and smiles, not out of admiration—but for reasons much deeper, much more calculated.

In the shadowed corner of the hall, an older man watched Saryna with silent pride. His name was Nayre Mordane, once a legendary tactician, now long-retired but still feared in whispers. To Saryna, he was more than a mentor. He was the closest thing to a father she ever had.

After the ceremony, she found him in the war chamber.

“Your blade grows sharper, but your eyes dull with weight,” he said without turning.

“I don't sleep,” she answered simply.

“You don’t have to. But you must learn to see when you’re being hunted—even by men with crowns.”

She sighed. “You see him too.”

Nayre nodded slowly. “The prince plays games he doesn't know he’s already losing. Be careful where you let him stand.”

Saryna’s side

That night, under the dim orange hue of lanterns, Saryna returned through the dense jungle that separated the palace from her home. A canopy of emerald leaves rustled above her as she walked the silent path known only to few. Beyond the jungle's edge, where light grew dim and wildflowers tangled in thorns, lay her village—small, tucked into a clearing, hidden like a heartbeat.

She stood by the riverbank just outside the village, her reflection flickering in the water. In that stillness, she allowed herself to think—not like a general, but like a woman.

The prince’s kindness disturbed her. It wasn’t real. She had seen how power turned affection into obsession. And then there was Rivaan.

He wasn’t like them. He never played at court. He simply obeyed. But when his eyes met hers on the battlefield—there had been something raw, real, unfinished.

She touched the edge of her blade. Do I regret saving him? Or not saving myself from what began that day?

Rivaan’s Side

The journey home was cold, despite the sun.

He traveled alone, wounds bandaged, thoughts heavier than his pack. The house he returned to stood crooked near the edge of a pine forest, quiet and gray. His mother’s garden was overgrown, the gate creaked as he pushed it open.

She stood on the porch, arms crossed, eyes wild with relief and suspicion.

“You’re back,” she said.

He nodded. “I’m whole.”

Her embrace was brief. Her grip on him tight, as if afraid something might take him again. She had been left once—by Rivaan’s father, a merchant who vanished before Rivaan could remember his face.

His mother’s love was no longer warmth—it was a wall. She feared any woman near him. She feared anyone who could take him away, like his father had taken her peace.

She never said Saryna’s name. But he saw the fear in her eyes whenever he paused too long staring at the mark on his arm—the cut he got while shielding Saryna in battle.

“You're different,” she whispered later that night.

“I’ve seen too much,” he replied.

“Or felt too much?” she pressed, her voice low, almost accusing.

He looked away. The image of Saryna—bleeding but unbowed, fierce and distant—lingered in his mind like a fever. And with it, a question he hadn’t dared speak aloud:

What happens when loyalty begins to feel like love?

Outside, the wind howled.

Inside, Rivaan closed his eyes—and tried not to dream of war, or of the woman who had taught him that orders could wound deeper than swords.

In the palace, Prince Auren paced his study, wine untouched. He tapped a ring against the wood, eyes narrowed.

“Has she responded to my letter?” he asked the shadowed attendant.

“No, my prince. She gave it to her mentor.”

Auren smiled, not kindly. “Good. That means she read it.”

He turned to the window, looking past the jungle. Toward the edge where the trees grew dense—and a village lay hidden.

“She’ll have to come to me eventually. If not as a soldier…” he paused. “Then as something else.”