Imeena woke to the scent of antiseptic herbs and linen too clean to trust.
For a moment, Imeena lay still, her eyes adjusting to the brightness above her. White stone ceiling, trimmed with silver accents.
Quiet humming magic in the air. No chains on her wrists. No cold blade to her throat. No demons.
Only silence.
She sat up slowly, expecting pain and found none.
Not even a throb.
She flexed her fingers, rolled her shoulder, twisted her torso. Her body obeyed like a well-forged weapon. The bruises were gone.
The gashes sealed. The exhaustion that had felled her in the forest was distant, like a storm remembered in a dream.
Celestian physiology had its uses. Hers, more than most.
She swung her legs off the cot and scanned the room.
It was unmistakable.
Smooth walls of pale quartz and mistglass. Rows of empty cots lined neatly, each enchanted with soft glowstones and sterilizing sigils.
The faint sound of bubbling tonics and rustling herbs drifted from behind a curtain.
The Celestian military infirmary.
She sighed, rubbing her temple. Perfect.
She wore one of those awful injury robes thin, pale grey, and vaguely itchy.
Her gear sat folded neatly on a chair near the wall: dark combat trousers, reinforced boots, utility belt, undershirt, chain glyph gloves, and her overcoat with the Cromwell insignia burned faintly at the collar.
Imeena stood and reached for the hem of the robe, pulling it off in one smooth motion—
—and nearly collided with a nurse stepping in through the door.
"Ah! Wait—!" the nurse yelped, throwing up her hands and covering her eyes. "Stars above, at least warn me!"
Imeena blinked. "I didn't realize you were that delicate."
"I'm not—! I mean—yes—but also—"
"I've got a body under this," Imeena said dryly. "Not a meteor storm."
The nurse made a wounded noise, still covering her eyes. "They said you were unconscious! I didn't expect—"
"I don't stay unconscious long." She yanked on her shirt, voice flat. "Now what the hell happened?"
The nurse peeked through her fingers. Her face was red. "You were found in the southern ridge. A Celestian patrol brought you in. You were—" she hesitated, "—not in good shape."
"Who found me?"
"Captain Rellen and his scouts. They saw signs of combat, heavy damage to the ruins, signs of multiple high-ranking demons. You were the only survivor."
Imeena stilled.
She tugged her coat over her shoulders, the weight of it settling into place like a second skin.
"How long?"
"Two days."
"Too long."
She fastened the last buckle, slung her belt over her hip, and gave the nurse one curt nod.
"I'm leaving."
"But—you haven't been cleared—"
"I'm clear," Imeena said, already moving toward the exit.
The nurse started to object again, then sighed in surrender. "Try not to bleed out in the hallway."
"No promises."
The corridor outside was quiet, lined with polished lightstone and protective murals that shimmered faintly with old magic.
Everything was too clean, too composed. Imeena moved like a shadow, boots silent on the tiled floor, her coat trailing behind her like smoke.
Her mind wasn't quiet.
Ten generals.
She should've died. That battle if it could be called that was suicide. No one could take on that many alone. She'd known it and gone anyway.
She didn't regret it. But something still churned beneath the surface.
Not fear.
Disappointment.
I let them walk away.
She remembered the grin of the first general. His eyes gleaming behind polished bloodsteel.
The way he'd moved predictive, not reactive. He wasn't just a brute. He was trained. Precision-layered with power.
And then more came. Coordinated. Watching her like she was a test they weren't quite done grading.
They'd let her live.
That bothered her most of all.
Demons didn't leave witnesses unless they wanted something.
Her chain glyphs tingled faintly against her palms, whispering just beneath the skin. Hungry. Alert. Her magic had healed. But her pride? That would take longer.
She turned a corner and descended a narrow stairwell, heading for the lower decks of the compound.
The sky beyond the high windows was still pale with morning light. Outside, she could see the outer wall the towering circle of Celestian defenses, topped with watching scouts and glowing artillery.
She hated the city. Too many polished facades. Too many masks.
The battlefield made more sense.
She walked faster, moving on instinct now, aiming for the war chamber. She'd report in, file whatever half-baked explanation they wanted, and then return to hunting.
She wasn't finished.
Not until every last one of those generals was dust under her boots.
Her pace didn't falter when the heavy steps sounded behind her.
Military boots. Not civilian. Not medical.
Not friendly.
She was three steps from the next stairwell when the voice called out.
"Commander Cromwell."
She stopped mid-stride.
Her jaw clenched.
The voice was too familiar. Polished. Authoritative.
She turned slowly.
A Celestian general stood at the hallway intersection, arms folded behind his back. His armor was ceremonial—gold and white trimmed with the sigil of House Vaelis.
His hair was silver-blue and tied neatly behind his shoulders, and his expression was carved from marble.
General Sorell Daelith.
She had never liked him.
"You're walking well for someone who nearly bled out," he said.
"I'm functional," she replied.
"Mm." He tilted his head slightly. "You were lucky. The scouts say the damage to the ruins was extensive."
"I don't rely on luck."
He nodded once, then stepped closer. "Regardless, the High Council has requested your presence."
Imeena stiffened. "For what?"
"You've been summoned."
She narrowed her eyes. "Am I under investigation?"
"Not to my knowledge," he said coolly. "But you are expected. Now."
Her instincts screamed.
The council didn't summon mercenary captains unless they needed something. Or unless something dangerous had become inconvenient.
She gave him a tight nod. "Fine."
He gestured for her to follow.
She didn't ask questions.
Not yet.
But her chains stirred again, and somewhere behind her ribs, that quiet promise reignited.
They should've killed me when they had the chance.