CHAPTER 4:ASHES ON HER SHOULDERS
The gates closed behind me with a thud that echoed through the trees.
No escort. No horse. No farewell.
Just a single sack of dried food thrown at my feet and a few mocking words from the guard who tossed it:
> "Be grateful you're not dead, Princess."
Princess.
That title meant nothing now. Not without a crown. Not without fire. Not without magic.
I stared at the shadowed forest that stretched beyond the road, the dense green mist curling low between the roots. The outskirts of the Virellian Empire—a land no noble child ever visited, unless they were being buried here.
I stepped forward.
With every step, the palace grew smaller behind me.
So did the sound of my brother's voice.
It wasn't long before the path gave way to uneven dirt and knotted tree roots. Birds called overhead—shrill, wild things. The cloak they let me keep was thin, barely enough to block the cold.
But I didn't cry.
Not yet.
Not when the pain still felt like a knife held in place. Not when I was still trying to figure out if this was a nightmare that hadn't ended yet.
My boots were already caked in mud when I heard it—
> A scream.
And then the clang of metal on metal.
I froze.
Through the trees, I caught a glimpse of movement. Horses. Firelight. A carriage—no, a caravan—under siege. A group of men in tattered black cloaks swarmed around it, weapons drawn, shouting orders and curses.
Thieves.
One of the guards fell. Another was backed against the wheel, bleeding from the side.
I ducked low, heart racing.
> You should run.
I gripped the thin dagger still hidden in my boot. The one my mother didn't know I'd kept.
> But I didn't run.
When I was fifteen, I begged my parents to let me train in combat. They said it wasn't proper for a future Empress.
So I trained in secret.
Late nights. Early mornings. Wooden blades stolen from the barracks. Books smuggled from the royal archives on sword stances and pressure points.
Now I had no title.
But I had just enough training to survive.
I waited for one of the thieves to pass, then lunged from the shadows and knocked him to the ground, driving my dagger into his leg. He screamed, dropping his sword.
I snatched it, rolled, and turned—just in time to meet another coming straight for me.
> Steel met steel.
My wrists burned. My stance faltered. But I remembered the drills. The rhythm. Block, pivot, cut low—
The thief dropped.
I didn't hesitate.
I turned again.
I fought like someone who had nothing left to lose.
When the last man fell, I stood shaking in the mud, blood on my sleeve and hair sticking to my face.
Inside the caravan, a man emerged, older but powerful-looking, dressed in a crimson-lined cloak embroidered with an unfamiliar crest.
He looked at me—at the sword still in my hand, at the thieves unconscious or groaning behind me—and raised a brow.
> "You," he said slowly, "are not an ordinary girl wandering the woods."
I didn't answer. I was too busy trying to catch my breath.
The man stepped forward, brushing dust from his shoulder. "I am Duke Lucien Halvar, of the Draeven Empire. And I believe I owe you my life."
Later, by the fire his remaining guards had managed to relight, I sat with a cup of hot broth in my hands, still unsure how this night had unfolded.
He studied me in the firelight.
"You're not from here," he said. "Not a mercenary. Not a runaway."
I looked at the flames.
"I'm no one," I said softly.
Lucien nodded, but his eyes never left mine. "I've lived long enough to know that's never true."
A pause.
Then, gently:
> "Come with me. To Draeven. I owe you more than coin. You've got fire in your blood, girl—even if you don't see it yet."
I stared at the fire.
And for the first time since the throne was ripped from me, I felt a spark.
Not magic. Not power.
Just the beginning of something new.The gates closed behind me with a thud that echoed through the trees.
No escort. No horse. No farewell.
Just a single sack of dried food thrown at my feet and a few mocking words from the guard who tossed it:
> "Be grateful you're not dead, Princess."
Princess.
That title meant nothing now. Not without a crown. Not without fire. Not without magic.
I stared at the shadowed forest that stretched beyond the road, the dense green mist curling low between the roots. The outskirts of the Virellian Empire—a land no noble child ever visited, unless they were being buried here.
I stepped forward.
With every step, the palace grew smaller behind me.
So did the sound of my brother's voice.
It wasn't long before the path gave way to uneven dirt and knotted tree roots. Birds called overhead—shrill, wild things. The cloak they let me keep was thin, barely enough to block the cold.
But I didn't cry.
Not yet.
Not when the pain still felt like a knife held in place. Not when I was still trying to figure out if this was a nightmare that hadn't ended yet.
My boots were already caked in mud when I heard it—
> A scream.
And then the clang of metal on metal.
I froze.
Through the trees, I caught a glimpse of movement. Horses. Firelight. A carriage—no, a caravan—under siege. A group of men in tattered black cloaks swarmed around it, weapons drawn, shouting orders and curses.
Thieves.
One of the guards fell. Another was backed against the wheel, bleeding from the side.
I ducked low, heart racing.
> You should run.
I gripped the thin dagger still hidden in my boot. The one my mother didn't know I'd kept.
> But I didn't run.
When I was fifteen, I begged my parents to let me train in combat. They said it wasn't proper for a future Empress.
So I trained in secret.
Late nights. Early mornings. Wooden blades stolen from the barracks. Books smuggled from the royal archives on sword stances and pressure points.
Now I had no title.
But I had just enough training to survive.
I waited for one of the thieves to pass, then lunged from the shadows and knocked him to the ground, driving my dagger into his leg. He screamed, dropping his sword.
I snatched it, rolled, and turned—just in time to meet another coming straight for me.
> Steel met steel.
My wrists burned. My stance faltered. But I remembered the drills. The rhythm. Block, pivot, cut low—
The thief dropped.
I didn't hesitate.
I turned again.
I fought like someone who had nothing left to lose.
When the last man fell, I stood shaking in the mud, blood on my sleeve and hair sticking to my face.
Inside the caravan, a man emerged, older but powerful-looking, dressed in a crimson-lined cloak embroidered with an unfamiliar crest.
He looked at me—at the sword still in my hand, at the thieves unconscious or groaning behind me—and raised a brow.
> "You," he said slowly, "are not an ordinary girl wandering the woods."
I didn't answer. I was too busy trying to catch my breath.
The man stepped forward, brushing dust from his shoulder. "I am Duke Lucien Halvar, of the Draeven Empire. And I believe I owe you my life."
Later, by the fire his remaining guards had managed to relight, I sat with a cup of hot broth in my hands, still unsure how this night had unfolded.
He studied me in the firelight.
"You're not from here," he said. "Not a mercenary. Not a runaway."
I looked at the flames.
"I'm no one," I said softly.
Lucien nodded, but his eyes never left mine. "I've lived long enough to know that's never true."
A pause.
Then, gently:
> "Come with me. To Draeven. I owe you more than coin. You've got fire in your blood, girl—even if you don't see it yet."
I stared at the fire.
And for the first time since the throne was ripped from me, I felt a spark.
Not magic. Not power.
Just the beginning of something new.