As Hera fought, she remembered the training Kreel had given her.
She'd only been five years old when her father had died.
Her mother had never been a part of her life—killed during childbirth, leaving Hera an orphan before she even had a chance to know love.
With no one left to care for her, the officials had taken her in, molding her into something useful. A warrior. A weapon.
Every day, she trained.
She was smaller than the others. Weaker at first.
The first few weeks had been nothing but failure—missed strikes, slow reflexes, bruises that never had time to heal before new ones formed. But she refused to be left behind.
The anger in her veins, the anger of abandonment, made her push harder.
She hated her father for leaving. Hated him for dying in this wretched forest.
But more than anything, she hated that she had no memories of him. Just a shadow of a man whose choices had stolen everything from her.
Then there was Kreel.
