He knows this look.
Drugged.
Ronyn’s stomach twists.
And it does not stop. Because his eyes drag across the group, and find a solitary figure propped against the far wall.
Jax.
Relief hits first, sharp and immediate.
She’s alive.
Then he sees the bindings.
Fuck.
She sags unnaturally against the iron support beam she’s tied to, dark strands veiling her face as her head lolls forward. Too still. Too quiet. Tarrakai snarls violently beneath Ronyn’s skin in response. And he knows something is wrong before anyone speaks.
He crouches low, training his arrow on the figures, darting his focus across the group.
Someone is in charge here.
He takes a single step across the threshold, and the undeniable cold of a sharp blade presses into his neck.
Fuck again.
“You think I didn’t know you followed me here?” A voice snarls from beyond the blade.
Calira.
Ronyn stills, bow and arrow drifting downward. He knows he’s not in a position of power. Won’t be able to fight his way out of…this.
“What the fuck have you done to these people?” Ronyn snaps instead, body rigid and unmoving. “You’ve drugged them.”
He swallows thickly, and the tip of the blade pierces the delicate flesh of his skin. A single bead trails down the column of his neck.
But Calira pulls the blade away, wiping it on her military-issued pants like the blade is irrelevant. Like she doesn’t need it.
Ronyn has no doubt about that.
An almost imperceptible sound—the rustle of fabric, perhaps—pricks his ears from the left. But Ronyn doesn’t react. Pretends he doesn’t hear it, turning slightly toward Calira.
Commander Calira removes one leather glove finger by finger with measured precision before setting it beside her on a small table. Every movement is economical. Controlled. Nothing wasted. Even her brutality feels disciplined. Like cruelty is nothing more than procedure.
“Yes,” she says evenly. “Just enough to keep everyone alive.”
The answer sends heat crawling up Ronyn’s spine.
The commander moves through the volcanic cave with the same energy she carried through Vyrhal’s gates: not overt brutality, but something colder. Sharper. Every step deliberate. Every glance assessing. She watches intention instead of movement. Measures bodies instead of faces.
Holy fuck.
This is exactly what the Crown made from conscripted children. And Ronyn knows this truth like a blade to the throat: no one survives the Royal Guard by remaining fully human. The horrifying part isn’t that Calira seems monstrous. It is that she seems functional. Efficient. Stable. Controlled. Like the system has taken a terrified little girl and successfully carved every unnecessary softness out of her. Not beaten out of her. Refined out of her. Like cruelty has been trained into efficiency so the Crown can wear her like a weapon.
Ronyn’s seen it before—in every Bloodbond brute forcing their way into homes in the slums. Taking what they want, hurting who they want, leaving a trail of devastation in their wake.
It is the legacy of Thalmyr’s Starborn Royal Guard.
