The corridors of the palace were suffocating, the silence
pressing down like a vice. Nyra's boots echoed against the cold stone, each
step a reminder that she was still here—still bound to a fate she hadn't
chosen. Shadows stretched along the walls, flickering in the dim torchlight,
and with them came the weight of expectation, of unseen eyes watching, waiting.
A month. A single month to prepare before she was tossed
into the Dominion Institute—a battlefield draped in the illusion of academia.
It wasn't the bloodshed that unsettled her. It was the whispers, the hidden
knives waiting behind silk and smiles. The unspoken wars fought with influence
as much as with steel.
She exhaled slowly, forcing the tension from her shoulders.
The King's words still burned in her mind. Prove herself. Dominate. Become
something more than a defiant girl with a sharp tongue.
A bitter smirk pulled at her lips. Let them try to tame her.
She reached the double doors leading to the chambers that
had been given to her, the heavy wood cool beneath her fingers. The second she
pushed them open, she felt it—the shift in the air. Not danger, but something
just as sharp.
Riven was sprawled across one of the ornate chairs, boots
kicked up on the table as if he owned the place. His golden eyes snapped to
hers the second she entered, sharp and searching, the usual lazy amusement
dimmed by something colder.
"About time," he muttered, voice laced with something that
wasn't quite anger—but wasn't far from it either.
Seraph stood beside him, arms folded, her violet gaze
unreadable. But the way her fingers curled slightly against her arms, the way
her posture tensed for the briefest second before settling, told Nyra
everything she needed to know.
They had been waiting. And they had been worried.
For a long, heavy moment, none of them spoke.
Then Riven broke the silence. "So?" His voice was
deceptively light. "Are we supposed to bow now, Your Highness?"
Nyra scoffed, stepping further into the room. "Bow, and I'll
break your legs."
Riven's smirk was sharp, but there was something else
beneath it—something that didn't quite reach his eyes. "That's more like it."
The tension between them settled into something quieter,
unspoken but understood. The decision had been made, the path set before them,
and now there was nothing left but to move forward.
Riven let out a long sigh, stretching his arms over his head
before dropping them lazily to his sides. "Alright, enough of this brooding
shit. Have you at least explored this oversized cage yet?"
Nyra arched a brow. "Explored?"
He gestured broadly, his golden eyes glinting with mischief.
"Yeah, you know. Walked around, tested out the quality of the furniture, maybe
pocketed a few expensive trinkets?"
Seraph sighed. "You do realize this isn't some noble's
estate you're planning to rob, right?"
Riven smirked. "It's exactly some noble's estate, just on a
grander scale. And if we're going to be stuck here, we might as well make use
of it."
Nyra considered it. She had barely left her chambers since
the fight, too preoccupied with dealing with the weight of Vaelor's
declaration. The idea of wandering the palace, of seeing its hidden corners,
held a certain appeal. She wasn't used to luxury, wasn't used to halls that
weren't lined with chains and guards watching her every move. But this place
was still foreign, still a battlefield waiting to be mapped.
"Fine," she said, pushing off the wall. "Let's see what's
worth knowing."
Riven grinned. "Now that's the spirit."
They moved through the halls with measured steps, Nyra
taking in the sheer vastness of the palace. Every corridor was adorned with
towering marble pillars, their bases etched with golden filigree, depicting the
long reign of the Drayven dynasty. Chandeliers of black iron and crystal hung
high above them, casting fragmented light across the polished floors. Expansive
stained-glass windows stretched along the walls, their images telling stories
of war, conquest, and bloodlines preserved through centuries. The air was heavy
with the scent of burning incense, mingling with something colder—the faint
metallic tang of authority, of control.
As they walked, they passed servants who quickly averted
their gazes, their footsteps hurried as they scurried out of the way. But as
they came closer, hesitation settled over the staff like a suffocating mist.
One by one, they bowed—some with stiff, reluctant movements, others dipping
their heads deeply, their shoulders tense with fear.
Nyra felt a sick twist in her stomach. She hated it. Hated
the sight of people lowering themselves before her, the same way she had once
been forced to bow to those who thought themselves above her. Her fingers
curled at her sides, and for a fleeting moment, she had the urge to tell them
to stand—to stop looking at her like she was something to be revered or feared.
The whispers started almost immediately.
"Did you see her in the arena?"
"She fought like a beast—no, like something else entirely."
"She's dangerous. More dangerous than the nobles realize."
"She's the King's daughter. She'll be worse than him."
One of the servants, an older woman with deep lines carved
into her face, scoffed under her breath. "Once a slave, always a slave," she
muttered as she bowed, her words low but pointed.
Riven's smirk vanished in an instant, his golden eyes
sharpening like a blade unsheathed. "You wanna repeat that, old hag?" His voice
was light, almost playful, but the undercurrent of threat was unmistakable.
The woman flinched, her eyes darting to the ground, but she
said nothing.
Seraph, who had remained silent, finally spoke, her voice as
smooth as a knife sliding between ribs. "Fear breeds bitterness," she murmured,
more to herself than to anyone else. "And resentment clings to those too weak
to wield their own power."
Nyra exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "Let's go."
She didn't look back as they continued forward, but the
weight of their stares still clung to her skin like filth she couldn't wash
away.
They wove through hallways, past towering doorways and
courtyards filled with marble statues of long-dead kings. The grandeur of the
palace was suffocating in its excess, each corner of the massive structure
screaming of wealth built on the backs of those who would never walk these
halls freely.
Then, as they turned a corner, the distant sound of clashing
steel caught their attention.
Riven's smirk returned. "Now that's a sound I like."
They followed the noise, stepping onto a stone path that
opened into a massive, open-air training ground. The scent of sweat and iron
filled the air, the rhythmic clang of weapons ringing out like an unspoken song
of violence.
Rows of Royal Guards were locked in combat drills,
moving with a brutal efficiency that immediately set them apart from common
soldiers. They were fast, precise—trained killers molded for war. Beyond them,
a few warriors sparred in pairs, exchanging blows that sent sparks flying
against the hard-packed ground.
Nyra took it all in, her silver eyes narrowing slightly.
This was not the sloppy, desperate brawling of slaves forced to fight for
survival. This was discipline. Cold, calculated destruction.
Seraph observed in silence, her gaze sweeping over the
fighters with quiet calculation. Riven, however, let out a low whistle. "Well,
well. Looks like they don't just parade around in fancy armor after all."
One of the sparring guards caught their presence and broke
away from his opponent, sheathing his blade as he strode toward them. He was
broad-shouldered, his stance brimming with confidence, the insignia of the
King's Elite pinned to his chest. His sharp gaze flicked between the three
of them before settling on Nyra.
"You have no business here," he said, voice curt,
dismissive. "Leave."
Nyra didn't move. Her chains shifted as she crossed her
arms, her lips curling. "Funny. I don't remember taking orders from a grunt."
The guard's expression darkened. "You're not meant to be
here."
Nyra's smirk widened, sharp as a blade. "Oh? We were just
passing through, but now that you mention it—I think I'll stay."
The words were spoken lightly, but there was a shift in the
air, something dark and electric curling at the edges of the moment.
The guard took a step forward, but before he could speak,
the shadows around Nyra flickered. It was slight—so imperceptible most would
dismiss it as a trick of the dimming sun. But Seraph's expression sharpened,
and Riven's easy stance grew just a bit more rigid.
Then, Nyra smiled.
It was not a warm smile. It was something else.
A slow, creeping thing that curled at the edges of her lips,
laced with a promise of ruin.
The guard's posture stiffened. "You think you can walk in
here and challenge us?"
Nyra tilted her head, her silver eyes gleaming like a
predator's. "Oh, I don't think. I know."
A ripple of unease passed through the gathered warriors. And
then, the shadows moved.
A collective breath caught in the throats of the surrounding
knights. One blink—Seraph was standing still. The next—she was gone.
The lead knight's breath quickened, his head snapping
around. "Where—?"
A whisper brushed his ear. "Here."
Before he could react, she was upon him.
A flash of steel—blood erupted from his side. He choked,
staggering as crimson splattered the ground. Another strike—a thin, elegant cut
along his throat, shallow enough to sting, deep enough to promise death.
He gasped, panic flooding his limbs. But before he could
even move, Nyx was behind him.
A sickening crack echoed through the air as her elbow
slammed into his spine, sending him sprawling to his knees. The other knights
lunged to interfere—
—but the shadows surged, slamming them back as though
invisible hands had gripped their throats. The air was suffocating, drenched in
cold terror.
Nyx crouched beside the knight, tilting her head as if
studying prey. Her fingers, now slick with his blood, traced lazy patterns
along his armor. "Still think you're strong? Still think you know power?" Her
voice was mockingly sweet, a predator toying with its kill.
The knight trembled. His hands shook as he reached for his
sword—
Nyx tsked. "Ah, ah. That's not going to help you."
She drove her knee into his ribs with enough force to hear
the bones snap.
He let out a strangled cry, coughing blood onto the dirt.
His fellow knights stood frozen, the very air around them thick with a dark,
primal fear.
Riven exhaled through his nose. "Yeah. He's done."
Nyra remained still, watching as Nyx rose slowly, a
bloodstained goddess standing amidst the carnage. Her glowing violet eyes
flickered with something ancient, something untamed.
And then, just as swiftly as it had begun, she smiled.
"Anyone else?"
Silence. The kind that promised only one thing—death.
The shadows receded, the suffocating pressure easing
slightly as Nyx turned to Nyra, her glowing violet gaze softening just a
fraction. "You okay?" she asked, voice laced with something
rare—concern.
Nyra wiped the blood from the corner of her mouth, flexing
her jaw as she tested the pain. "I'm fine," she muttered, then
glanced down at the broken knight. "I think he's the one who should be
worried."
Riven let out a long sigh, running a hand through his hair
as he stepped beside them. "Babe, did you really have to go and do all that?"
His golden eyes gleamed with amusement, though there was no mistaking the
admiration beneath it.
Nyx tilted her head, her lips curling into a slow, teasing
smirk. "Oh, Riven," she purred, stepping closer, "you know how I
get when someone touches what's mine."
Before he could reply, she grabbed the front of his shirt
and pulled him into a deep, heated kiss, her fingers threading through his hair
as if staking her claim right then and there. Riven let out a muffled sound of
surprise before melting into it, his hands gripping her waist, grounding
himself in the chaos that was Nyx.
Nyra rolled her eyes. "Okay, can we not do this over a
corpse?"
Nyx pulled back with a wicked grin, licking a stray drop of
blood from her lips as she turned to Nyra. "Fine. But you owe me one for
letting you have the first hit."
Nyra huffed but smirked nonetheless. "I'll consider
it."
Riven shook his head, muttering under his breath, "Gods
help us all."
The three of them turned, leaving behind the wreckage as the
stunned knights scrambled to recover, none daring to challenge them again. The
night air was thick with the scent of blood, the weight of unspoken warnings
settling over the courtyard.
Nyx laughed softly, the sound both chilling and
intoxicating. "Well," she murmured, "that was fun."
The slow, grating drag of Nyra's chains scraped across the
marble with a metallic snarl, echoing like a war drum through the stunned
silence. Her steps were deliberate, shoulders squared, hips steady—each stride
radiating the kind of wrath that left kingdoms trembling. Blood painted her
boots and splattered the hem of her tunic, crimson smears drying in jagged
patterns across her arms. The scent of iron clung to her like a crown.
Behind her, Riven walked with the grace of a predator—fluid,
loose-limbed, and watchful. One hand casually rested near the hilt of his
blade, the other tucked into his belt like he'd just strolled out of a tavern
brawl he started for fun. His smirk was sharp, his eyes scanning every
corridor, every shadow.
Nyx moved like smoke and hunger, her gait a dangerous sway
of hips and violence. Blood still dripped lazily from her fingers, and her
smile hadn't faded since the last scream died. Her posture screamed
satisfaction, her head tilted slightly like she was still tasting the moment.
Every inch of her oozed danger, daring anyone to come closer.
The shattered silence of the Royal training grounds behind
them was a monument to the chaos they had left in their wake—blood pooling in
the dirt, crushed weapons scattered, and stunned knights too afraid to even
breathe.
No one followed them.
No one dared.
"You know," Riven muttered with a smirk, glancing
over his shoulder at the stunned knights behind them, "we really know how
to leave an impression."
Nyx laughed softly, licking a drop of blood from her
knuckle. "You say that like it's a bad thing."
"Didn't say it was," Riven replied. "Just
wondering how long it'll take before the nobles start pissing themselves."
Nyra didn't speak. Her gaze was forward, her expression
carved from steel. But inside, her magic still simmered. The storm hadn't left
her. Not yet.
They turned the corner, steps echoing into a marble corridor
leading out of the training yard—and that's when they saw her.
She stood in the center of the archway like a sculpture
chiseled from winter.
Princess Celeste Drayven.
Impossibly poised, flawlessly dressed in silk robes of icy
blue and silver that shimmered under the light. Her golden-brown skin glowed
with noble polish, every strand of her sun-kissed hair tucked perfectly into a
braid adorned with sapphire clips. But it was her eyes—striking, crystalline
blue—that sliced through the hallway with a chill that could freeze the sun.
She smiled.
But it wasn't warm.
"So," she said, her voice as sharp and delicate as
broken glass, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her eyes before it
vanished behind practiced disdain, "this is the infamous slave girl
everyone's been whispering about."
Nyra's steps didn't slow. Not until they were face to face.
She stopped only a few paces away, her silver eyes cool,
unwavering. "And you must be the Princess who thinks she can hide behind
glitter and gowns."
Celeste's smile widened, venom sweetening every syllable.
"How precious. They gave you chains and now they call you royalty. Did
they forget to teach you how to bow, Slave Princess?"
Nyra tilted her head. "I bow for no one. Certainly not
for a frostbitten brat playing pretend behind palace walls."
Riven let out a low whistle. "And here I thought this
was going to be boring."
Nyx took a slow step forward, her gaze flicking over
Celeste's pristine robes like they were worth less than mud. "She smells
like roses and entitlement—like one of those ridiculous noble fragrances they
douse themselves in before pretending to fight, all lavender oil and powdered
delusion. Do all of Daddy's favorites get perfume and illusion lessons, or is
that just for the ones too scared to fight their own battles?"
Celeste's eyes narrowed. "And what are you supposed to
be? A guard dog with split ends?"
Nyx grinned, sharp and slow. "No, darling. I'm the
reason your guards wet the floor."
The tension coiled tighter. The air felt brittle.
"Tell me," Celeste said, her voice still poised,
but her words now a blade, "what exactly do you think you're doing here?
You may have bled for an audience, but that doesn't make you worthy. It makes
you entertaining. And this kingdom has never crowned jesters."
Nyra stepped closer, close enough that Celeste's breath
hitched for half a second—and in that fleeting pause, something flickered
behind her ice-blue gaze. Not fear, not yet. But recognition. A realization
that she might not be the one in control of this exchange. It passed quickly,
masked beneath years of royal composure, but Nyra saw it. And that was enough.
"I'm not here to entertain," she said softly,
dangerously. "I'm here to take what was stolen from me."
Celeste's mask slipped—just for a blink.
Nyra didn't smile. "And you? You're just another
obstacle. One that bleeds like everyone else."
"Is that a threat?"
"It's a promise."
The silence stretched.
Then, Celeste smoothed a hand over her braid, regaining her
flawless composure. "We'll see how long you last in the Institute. Don't
mistake attention for power. Eventually, the spectacle fades. And when it does?
You'll be nothing but a stain the court steps over."
Nyx leaned in with a soft purr. "Can't wait to see your
face when you realize stains like us don't fade. We spread."
Celeste turned on her heel and disappeared down the
corridor, her guards falling in step behind her without a word.
Nyra watched her go, tension still taut in her chest.
"She's going to be a problem," Riven said, almost
cheerfully.
"Good," Nyra murmured. "I was getting
bored."
Word spreads like fire.
Through servants' lips, through the whispers of soldiers,
across noble banquets and academy halls, the tale echoed. The girl in chains
who broke a royal warrior. The one who bled in silk. The one who didn't kneel.
The King's lost daughter.
Some spoke her name with awe. Others with disgust.
But everyone spoke it.
In a private chamber laced with shadow and stone, King
Vaelor Drayven sat in silence, a glass of dark wine untouched at his side.
One of his guards had just finished speaking.
The details were exact.
The training grounds. The broken knight. The blood-soaked
victory. The venom-laced standoff with Celeste.
The King said nothing at first. He stared into the
fireplace, the flames casting gold across his face.
A flicker of memory surfaced—a girl no older than four, with
ash-smudged cheeks and stubborn eyes, standing in the mud outside a noble's
carriage, refusing to move, even as a whip cracked near her heels.
Then, very softly—
"That's my girl."
In another wing of the palace, Kierian stood on a high
balcony, watching the moonlight play across the courtyard.
He'd heard everything.
Of course he had.
He smirked, slow and thoughtful.
"Looks like the game just got interesting."
He turned into the shadows.
And vanished.
Across Veyrune, the name spread like wildfire—carried on the
breath of whispers, the ink of secret letters, and the stares of courtiers who
suddenly looked over their shoulders. The kingdom watched now—not just with
curiosity, but with fear.
The Slave Princess.
The girl who defied royalty.
The girl who bled for power.
And would not stop until the world burned or bowed.