The General Who Knew My Name

Darius's hand dropped like a hammer.

One second, she was fighting for breath, her throat raw and burning, and the next—she was gasping for air, stumbling back, clutching at her neck as she choked. Her lungs felt like they were on fire, her pulse slamming into her skull.

Someone pressed a pristine handkerchief into her hand. She wiped her eyes, still dazed, her vision blurry. A glass of wine appeared at her side, and without thinking, she knocked it back, the liquid burning down her throat as it filled her empty lungs.

Her vision cleared, and she found Darius, already striding toward the entrance, a different look on his face.

A smile. A smile that wasn't meant for her.

No, it was for General Selene, who had just entered the room, floating in like a goddess in a gown of teal. Darius met her with a look of tenderness that made Aria's stomach churn. He took her hand, guiding her effortlessly toward the dance floor, his eyes soft as he led her into a waltz.

Aria's hands clenched into fists, shaking with fury. Her teeth ground together, her heart pounding so hard it was like it was trying to escape her chest.

So that's how it was, huh?

She could feel the rage simmering, hot and dangerous, just below the surface. Her fingers twitched, wanting to throw something—anything—at his smug face. But it was too late. They were already lost in their perfect little world, dancing, laughing, while she—

Her mask cracked, just for a second. A flicker of raw hatred lit her eyes as she glared after them, the sting of humiliation cutting deeper than any blade ever could.

"It was going well for you," he said, voice low and close, like he was sharing a secret—just enough to make her jump. "Until that fake little 'gratitude' speech."

Aria stiffened, trying to mask the jolt of surprise as she turned to face him.

That was when she got her first clear look at General Azneil.

His gaze wasn't just sharp; it was lethal, a silver blade glinting in the dim light as he watched Darius and Selene, who were gliding across the dance floor like they were born to it. His lips quirked with something that wasn't exactly a smile.

"Though, that last answer… now that might work wonders for your military career."

She felt a hot surge behind her eyes but kept it in check, swiping a thumb across her lashes and looking anywhere but at him.

"It wasn't a fake speech. And for the rest of it… if General Darius sees fit... I'll apologize. Whatever punishment he has in mind, I'll accept."

Not that she had much of a choice. But she left that part unsaid.

"Will you now?"

Azneil's silver eyes flicked back to her, intrigued. 

Standing at nearly five-foot-ten, Aria was used to towering over most people, but General Azneil was something else—a fortress of a man.

He loomed over her, a full head taller, and every inch of him was as chiseled and cold as a granite statue. Midnight-black hair framed his angular face, and his eyes, a stormy mix of blue and gray, carried a kind of menace that made most people back up fast. But Aria was too far in now to care about how intimidating he was.

She just needed to know what he wanted from her.

"Yes, General. I'll do whatever he demands."

Azneil raised an eyebrow, barely hiding a smirk. "Even if it… repulses you?"

She opened her mouth to respond, but he silenced her with a hand, his gaze shifting back to the couple on the dance floor.

"In fact, I'd wager nearly everyone here disgusts you. Which makes me wonder, why are you here at all?"

The question caught her off guard, but she didn't flinch. In fact, she took a half-step closer, braving his cutting gaze.

"Not everyone here repulses me, General. I'm here because I was asked to 'grace' this event with my presence." She let a sardonic smile curl her lips. "Apparently, I'm good entertainment."

Azneil lifted an eyebrow, amused.

"Is that so?"

He leaned closer, his scent wrapping around her, something dark and heady—a blend of cedar and cold mountain air, with a faint undercurrent of smoke, like embers just beginning to cool. His voice lowered, a whisper just for her ears.

"And who, exactly, doesn't make your skin crawl here?"

She didn't miss a beat, meeting his gaze directly.

"Terrans, Sir."

 Maybe he was thinking of ending this little exchange, snuffing out the moment, but he didn't. Not yet. Instead, he stepped a fraction closer, his warm breath grazing her cheek.

His mouth twisted into something darker, a flicker of—was that a challenge? He studied her, thinking—Why shouldn't he just end this conversation? Why not squash the defiance right now? But something in her kept him there, like he wanted to see just how far this would go.

He took a slow step closer, his breath warm on her ear.

"Tell me, what if I, a 'Kherosi' General, were to invite you to my quarters tonight? Promise to grant you ONE wish. Would you be as honored as every other Terran girl?"

Her eyes widened, the bluntness of it hitting her like a physical slap, shocking the breath right out of her.

His quarters—her, invited—a fantasy practically worshiped by Terran and Kherosi women alike—and he tossed it out there like he was offering her a casual coffee date.

She couldn't tell if he was testing her or simply toying with her, but she wasn't about to let him see her surprise for long. Because he was watching her— watching her closely, like he wanted to see how she'd react. So instead, she steadied herself, her fingers tightening on his sleeve for the barest second as he moved to pull back.

"Yes... I'd be honored. All... 'ALL' I want is to join the army, sir. I'll do whatever it takes."

Azneil stilled, his gaze locked on hers.

For a heartbeat, he just stared, his expression unreadable, then—barely—a flicker of something in his eyes—a trace of shock, perhaps, quickly masked by a smirk that looked dangerously close to satisfaction.

"Anything?"

"Anything."

A smirk, a single nod, and he peeled her fingers off his sleeve, stepping back.

"It was a pleasure to meet you. Aria Stark."

And there it was, that shock that sent a shiver through her.

Her real name.

Not her number.

Not some title or rank.

He'd called her by her name, of all things—a thing not even the friendliest Kherosi seemed to bother with.

She stood, unable to move, still feeling the faint ghost of his presence even as he turned to walk away.