Part of her wanted to crawl into bed and stay there—for a month or more—ensconced in the soft sheets and warm furs, away from the world of politics and violence.
But that wasn't an option.
She had cousins—weak-spirited, scheming—but none fit to rule. The bloodline and Maidan's fate sat on her shoulders alone.
They had doubted her at first, whispering that she was too young, too fiery, too untested. But she had ridden at the head of her army, her banner bright in the wind, and led her knights onto the plains.
Now, they called her hellion. A queen of fire. A scourge of the Varak.
She had earned her reputation—the hellion queen, the fire-heart—through calculated ferocity. Where her father had sought compromises, she had answered orc raids with twice the force. When her generals hesitated, she led the charge herself. The blood on her hands was a necessary price for her people's survival.
That knowledge did nothing to quiet the screams that sometimes woke her in the night.
But she felt the toll of it all.
Fire burned only until there was nothing left to devour.
In truth, she didn't know how long this could continue.
Eliza sank onto the edge of her bed, fingers knotting in the thick furs. She thought of the long winter pressing down on them, of the dwindling supplies, and the thin smiles ofher people, morale stretched to breaking. She thought of the promise she clung to—that when the snows melted and the mountain passes opened, their allies would come. She'd sent word by hawk, and King Vael Nareth of the Ketheri had responded. Ketheri reinforcements would ride north. They would break the orcs. Drive them back into the dust.
If only she could hold out that long.
Doubt slid into her mind like a knife. What if they could not? What if orc strength outlasted them, as it always had? The Varak were relentless, terrifying up close. In terms of physical strength alone, they far outstripped humans. Their berserkers fought like demons. And their shadow-mages…
Even thinking of that dark magic chilled her. She'd heard the tales—they all had. Tales of orcs who stepped into shadow and vanished, who struck unseen, as silent as a whisper, who became death itself. Those stories had haunted the night for as long as she could remember.
Her people had survived only through mage-fire, steel, and sheer will.
But will had its limits.
Eliza closed her eyes, rage flickering beneath her ribs like banked coals. It didn't matter. Doubt or no doubt, exhaustion or no exhaustion, she would not yield. Not until every last orc lay rotting in the dirt.
She slipped beneath the furs, the warmth of the covers doing little to thaw the cold in her bones. The fires outside still burned, watching her like hungry eyes in the dark.
Her hand moved beneath her pillow, curling around the dagger she always kept hidden there. The cool steel felt reassuring against her palm—a queen's last line of defense.
Eliza Ducanis lay awake in the silence of her chambers, her people's fate pressing on her shoulders, her dagger steady in her grasp.
And in the night beyond her walls, the shadows stirred.
Chapter
Three
Human stench drifted through the streets of Istrial in heavy waves: sweat, smoke, stale ale, the reek of waste. Beneath it all was something darker, sharper, metallic: the copper tang of blood.
Rakhal slipped through the outer city's veins like a phantom, his body one with the shadows that curled and writhed around him. Every step he took was silent, every movement swallowed by the dark. The streets were empty at this hour, shutters drawn tight, lanterns guttering weakly against the night. Behind wooden doors, humans huddled close, their scent of fear as strong as the smoke that clung to the air.
He despised it—the stench of sweat, of waste, of their cooked meats and sour ale. Underneath it all lay something fouler still. The copper tang of blood. The rot of death.
This was a kingdom straining at the seams. He could smell it in every breath.
The wards shimmered faintly at the city's edge, invisible to human eyes but unmistakable to him. Webs of magecraft strung through the alleys and along the gates, meant to flare at any intruder who dared slip past. Rakhal pressed himself deeperinto the shadows. The anakara responded, thick and heavy, smothering the threads of light until they flickered and died. One by one, the wards guttered out like candles starved of air. Nothing remained to mark his passage.
The familiar pain began—a sharp burning in his veins, the shadows drinking his strength as payment for their service. It would grow worse the longer he maintained this state, the deeper he pulled from the anakara. By dawn, whether he succeeded or failed, he would be near collapse. But until then, the night was his to command.
The castle rose before him, a black monolith carved against the stars. Its towers speared upward, their silhouettes sharp and unyielding. The banners of Maidan stirred faintly in the wind, limp as if even the fabric were weary of this war.
