PROLOGUE

Somewhere near the edge of the Lumaether Fields

They never tell you how quiet it gets after the war.

Not the peaceful kind of quiet. Not the kind that means it’s over. Just… the kind that feels like something’s missing.

Like the screaming stopped too fast. Like your heart’s still trying to catch up. Like the universe forgot you were still here.

Sereia Riven Vexen stared up at a cracked sky that didn’t quite look real anymore—like it had been stitched together with smoke and stars. Her body ached in places she couldn’t name. Her side was bleeding, slow and steady, but she wasn’t panicking. Not yet. Not even angry.

She was just… tired.

And maybe a little annoyed at herself for surviving.

The mission had gone sideways. That much was obvious. She couldn’t remember exactly when it started falling apart—maybe it was when the comms went dark. Or when the ground split open. Or maybe it was when he looked her in the eyes, said “You trust me, right?”, and disappeared into the fire.

Caius Kieran Thorne. The golden boy. The perfect soldier. The one the system paraded around as proof that heroes still existed.

He was also the one who left her behind.

Maybe he had a reason. Maybe there was a call she didn’t hear, a sacrifice she didn’t see. Maybe she was being dramatic.

But then she saw him.

Standing on the ridge above her. Alive. Untouched.

Carrying someone else.

Sereia didn’t cry. Didn’t scream. Didn’t move.

She just memorized the way his arms held that girl like she meant something.

Like she was the one he fought to save.

Like the rest of them were already ghosts.

And here’s the thing:

Sereia wasn’t mad because he chose someone else. She was mad because he looked at her like she was easy to leave.

Zayen Severing Voss.

The name they whispered like a curse. The face they plastered on war boards across the systems with words like terrorist, traitor, rebel king.

He stepped into view, not with a weapon, but with something stranger—stillness. Like he wasn’t surprised to see her breathing. Like he knew she would be.

He looked at her for a long time. Not with pity. Not even curiosity. Just… clarity.

“You thought he’d come back for you,” he said, voice low, almost conversational. It wasn’t a question.

Sereia didn’t answer.

Zayen didn’t touch her. Didn’t help her. Didn’t hurt her either. He just nodded once, as if confirming something only he understood, then turned and walked away.

And somehow, that scared her more than dying.

Because he didn’t need to win. Not with weapons. Not with fire. He just needed her to see the truth.

And now—she had.

Maybe this wasn’t a story about heroes.

Maybe it never was.

Let them have their war stories. Their polished medals. She had something else.

A memory. A name. And a reason to live.

And she wouldn’t forget who gave her each one.

After the medals. After the lies.

When the only thing you have left is your name, your blood, and the promise you whispered to yourself in the dirt:

Survive. And make it count.

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