The heat of the midday sun pressed down like a hammer, baking the dust beneath Nyra's bare feet as she trudged through the outer fields of Lord Varthen's estate. The air was thick, choking, carrying the sharp scent of sweat, soil, and decay. Another day in this gods-forsaken hellhole, and still, she wasn't dead. That was something.
She moved with calculated precision, balancing the heavy sack of grain on her shoulder. Her muscles ached, raw and overworked, but she swallowed the pain like she always did. Weakness wasn't an option. The overseers had sharp eyes, sharper whips, and a sick pleasure in using them. The moment you showed you were slowing down, they'd remind you who you were—who you'd always be.
A slave.
Nyra had stopped flinching at that word a long time ago.
Ahead, a cluster of other slaves, mostly young, mostly broken, worked under the watchful eyes of the guards. They carried, they hauled, they suffered in silence. A boy tripped, barely twelve, and before he could scramble up, a whip cracked against his back. He screamed, stumbling forward, and the overseer sneered down at him like he was a piece of shit stuck to his boot.
"Fucking useless," the guard spat. "Move, before I carve your skin off."
The boy didn't hesitate. He scrambled to his feet and pushed forward, the blood dripping down his spine a reminder to the rest of them.
Don't fall. Don't stop. Don't fucking breathe too loud.
Nyra's grip tightened on the sack, but she didn't react. Not worth it. Not now. The bastard would get what was coming to him one day. For now, she had to keep moving, keep playing the obedient little pawn in their twisted game. She kept walking, kept her head down, kept pretending she didn't care. That she wasn't one step away from grabbing the nearest jagged rock and bashing the bastard's head in.
A soft whistle broke through her thoughts.
Riven.
He was ahead of her, near the water barrels, smirking like he hadn't been beaten half to death just the night before. "You look like you're thinking too hard again, Ny," he called, loud enough to be heard but not enough to draw too much attention. "What's the matter? Pissed you didn't get to throw a punch today?" His lip was swollen, his left eye darkened, but he was still standing. Still defiant.
"Keep staring, Ny, and they're gonna think you've got a crush on me," he drawled.
She scoffed. "I'd rather eat dirt."
"Wouldn't be the worst thing you've eaten."
Her lip curled, but she forced herself to keep walking, moving past him before an overseer could notice them talking. Conversations were dangerous. Connections were dangerous. They weren't supposed to have friends. Weren't supposed to have anything beyond the work, the pain, and the long stretches of empty nights where the only thing that kept them company was the hunger in their gut and the rage in their bones.
But Nyra had Riven. Had Seraph. And that made all the difference.
She reached the barn at the edge of the fields, dumping the sack of grain onto a growing pile. "Might as well be shoveling shit for all the difference this makes," she muttered under her breath, wiping the sweat from her brow with the back of her wrist. Her fingers were raw, cracked at the edges, dirt caked beneath her nails. Her throat was dry, lips chapped, but she didn't dare steal a sip of water unless given permission.
She turned, ready to grab another sack, when the feeling crept up her spine.
Someone was watching her.
She didn't move immediately. Just shifted her weight, scanning the area from the corner of her eye. The overseers were busy tormenting someone else. The nobles—if they were even here—wouldn't lower themselves to stand in the heat. So who—
"Vale."
She stiffened.
Not Nyra. Not girl. Not filth, or trash, or worthless whore.
Vale.
The name slithered through her ears like a curse, setting her teeth on edge. It wasn't just the word—it was the way he said it, like it meant something more. Like it carried weight. A name she hadn't chosen, yet one that refused to let go of her.
Her gut twisted, but she kept her face blank. Keep it cold, keep it unreadable. But deep down, something burned. He knew. He fucking knew something.
Vale.
Only one person called her that.
She turned, slow, careful, keeping her face blank as she met the sharp, amused gaze of Kierian Voss.
The Ghost.
No one knew exactly why they called him that. Maybe it was because he could slip through a room without anyone realizing he was there until it was too late. Maybe it was because he was supposed to be dead years ago, yet he kept showing up, defying fate with that ever-present smirk. Or maybe it was because he had a habit of appearing exactly when you least fucking wanted him to.
Like now.
Kierian leaned against the barn's wooden frame, arms crossed, dressed in the dark, fitted clothes that set him apart from the rest of the guards. He wasn't an overseer. He wasn't a noble. He was something in between. Something worse.
A mercenary. A killer-for-hire. A man with no loyalty except to the highest bidder.
And for some god-damned reason, he had taken an interest in her.
Nyra met his gaze evenly, refusing to let him see the unease curling in her gut. "What do you want?"
Kierian tilted his head slightly, a lock of dark hair falling over his forehead. "That's no way to greet an old friend."
"We're not friends."
He chuckled. "No, I suppose we're not. Friends don't sell each other out for coin."
Her jaw clenched. "Then why are you here?"
Kierian pushed off the wall, stepping closer. Too close. His voice dropped, too soft for anyone else to hear. "Because you don't belong here."
Her blood turned to ice.
His smirk widened as if he could hear her heart hammering against her ribs. "And you know it, don't you?" he continued, voice as smooth as silk, as sharp as a blade. "You've always known."
Nyra forced herself to breathe. Forced herself to shove the panic deep, deep down where it couldn't touch her. "You're full of shit."
"Maybe." Kierian leaned in, his breath warm against her ear. "But tell me, Vale—if you're just another slave, why do you look like someone worth keeping alive?"
She went still.
His meaning was clear. Slaves were expendable. A dime a fucking dozen. No one cared if they lived or died. And yet, she had survived things that should have killed her. Had been beaten, starved, threatened, and still, they never went far enough to finish her.
Kierian pulled back, his expression unreadable now.
Nyra scoffed, forcing herself to smirk. "Oh, please. If I was worth keeping alive, they'd have fed me better." Her voice was sharp, laced with defiance, but her heart pounded like a war drum in her chest. She hated that he got under her skin, hated that he saw something in her even she wasn't sure existed. "Something to think about," he murmured before stepping away, disappearing into the chaos of the field like a shadow slipping back into the dark.
Nyra stared after him, pulse thundering in her ears.
Because no matter how much she wanted to pretend otherwise—
He was right.
And that terrified her.
The sun had dipped lower in the sky, but the heat still clung to the air, thick and suffocating. The fields were nearly empty now, most of the slaves herded back to the barracks for the evening rations—what little they were given. Nyra moved in step with the others, her thoughts heavy with Kierian's words. She told herself it didn't matter, that he was just trying to get in her head. But the unease sat in her stomach like rotten food. She wasn't special. She wasn't different. She was just another body in the dirt, meant to work, to suffer, to die like the rest. So why did it feel like a lie?
You don't belong here.
She shoved the thought aside. Dangerous thoughts. Useless thoughts. She needed to focus on surviving, not whatever game Kierian was playing.
A sharp jab at her side startled her. Instinct kicked in—her muscles tensed, ready to strike before she caught herself. A curse was already forming on her lips when she turned, eyes blazing, only to find Seraph smirking beside her, completely unfazed. She turned to find Seraph, walking beside her, a knowing smile tugging at her lips.
"You're brooding," Seraph murmured, her voice soft yet unshakable, like a lullaby wrapped in steel.
Nyra scowled. "I don't brood." Brooding was for tragic heroes and love-struck idiots, neither of which she had time for.
"Mmm, of course not." Seraph's violet eyes gleamed with amusement. "That must be someone else walking around with murder in her eyes."
Nyra huffed, rolling her shoulders. "I'm just tired."
Seraph hummed, unconvinced. "That, and something's bothering you."
Nyra knew better than to lie to Seraph. The girl had a way of seeing past words, reading people like an open book, even without her magic. Still, Nyra wasn't ready to talk about Kierian. Not yet. So she shifted the subject.
"Where's Riven?" she asked.
"Trying to steal extra rations," Seraph said with a soft chuckle. "I told him it wasn't worth it, but you know him."
Nyra sighed. "Idiot's going to get himself killed one day."
Seraph's smirk wavered, just slightly, before she masked it with a teasing lilt. "He's survived this long, hasn't he?" But there was something in her voice—something tight, like she was trying to convince herself as much as Nyra.
Seraph's smirk softened, her gaze drifting ahead. "Not if I can help it."
They entered the barracks just as Riven appeared, a triumphant grin on his battered face. "Ladies," he greeted, plopping down beside them on the cold stone floor. He held up a small, sad-looking crust of bread like it was a treasure from the gods. "Feast your eyes on this masterpiece."
Nyra snorted. "You risked getting your ass beat for that?"
"Risk? Please." Riven smirked. "The cook was too busy screaming at some poor bastard to notice."
Seraph gave him a pointed look. "So you stole from a starving man."
Riven's grin faltered. "No—shit, Nyx, don't look at me like that. I stole from the storage room, not someone's meal. I do have some morals."
"Mmm, questionable ones," Seraph mused, but her lips twitched as she tore the bread in three and handed them each a piece. "Eat before Nyra glares us both to death."
Nyra muttered, "If this is your idea of providing, Riven, I fear for Seraph's future." But she took the piece anyway. Hunger gnawed at her stomach, and pride wouldn't fill it. The bread was stale and dry, like it had already been chewed up and spat out by fate itself, but it was food. Hunger gnawed at her stomach, and pride wouldn't fill it. The bread was stale and dry, but it was food.
As they ate, Riven leaned against Seraph's shoulder, pressing a kiss to her temple. "See? I provide for you. What a great mate I am."
Seraph arched a brow, unimpressed. "You call that providing? Bare minimum, darling."
Riven clutched his chest dramatically. "Ouch. My pride. My heart."
Nyra made a retching noise. "If you two are going to be disgustingly in love, do it somewhere else."
Riven grinned. "Jealous?"
"Of you? Absolutely not."
Seraph smirked. "She's just mad because no one's fawning over her."
Nyra shot her a look. "I'll gut you both in your sleep."
But even as she said it, something warm curled in her chest. She would never admit it, not in a thousand lifetimes, but seeing them happy—seeing them have something real in this wretched place—made it just a little easier to breathe.
"That's the spirit," Riven said with a wink.
For a moment, the weight of the day melted away. Here, in this stolen moment of laughter, they weren't just slaves. They were friends. They were alive.
But reality was never far behind.
The barracks door creaked open, and a shadow stretched across the floor. The laughter died instantly.
Nyra turned her head slowly, her body already tensing for a fight. The air seemed to thicken, the warmth of their laughter vanishing like a candle snuffed out. The barracks, once filled with quiet murmurs and the occasional rustle of movement, had gone deathly still.
Beside her, Seraph shifted subtly, her body poised, ready—not aggressive, but prepared. A silent signal. Riven, usually quick with a joke, said nothing. Even without looking at them, Nyra could feel it. The shift in the room. The weight pressing against her chest, the instinct screaming at her to be ready.
Because standing in the doorway, staring straight at her—was Kierian.
Nyra held Kierian's gaze, refusing to be the first to look away. She could feel the weight of every set of eyes in the room, even the ones pretending not to watch. Fear curled in her gut, tight and coiled, but she forced it down. She would not cower. Not now. Not ever. If he had come here to intimidate her, he'd have to try a hell of a lot harder. The air in the barracks felt like it had thickened, pressing in on her skin. Around them, the other slaves pretended not to be watching, their heads lowered, their movements forced and deliberate. No one wanted to draw attention. No one wanted to be collateral damage. The barracks were silent, the kind of silence that slithered in before a storm, heavy with tension.
Kierian stepped forward, slow and deliberate, his sharp eyes scanning the three of them before settling back on her. Nyra's instinct screamed at her to move, to step back, but she held her ground. She hated the way he moved—like he was in control of everything, like he knew something she didn't. That smirk of his only made it worse, like he was waiting for her to flinch. Like he expected it. His movements were unhurried, controlled, like a predator who knew it had already won the hunt. His gaze flickered over Riven and Seraph before returning to Nyra, his smirk sharp enough to cut. "Relax, Vale. I'm not here to slit your throat."
Nyra didn't move. "Shame. I was looking forward to the attempt."
Kierian chuckled, low and amused. "Is that so? Careful, Vale. Some men might take that as an invitation." His smirk sharpened. "But we both know you're not stupid enough to actually want that fight. Are you?"
Riven let out a low whistle. "Bold of you, Ny. Pretty sure he's got at least five different ways to kill you before you blink."
"Six, actually," Kierian corrected with a lazy smirk. "But I'm not in the mood for a body count tonight."
Seraph shifted slightly, her violet eyes unreadable. "Then what do you want?"
Riven scoffed under his breath, shaking his head. "Whatever it is, it sure as hell ain't good."
Kierian's smirk faded just enough for something colder to slip through. The change was subtle, but it was there—the shift from amusement to something heavier, something dangerous. It was the look of a man who knew things others didn't. A man who enjoyed watching people squirm under the weight of unspoken truths. "A message. From Lord Varthen."
The mention of that name was enough to send a ripple of unease through the barracks. Some of the other slaves lowered their heads, pretending they hadn't heard. Lord Varthen didn't need reasons to make someone disappear.
Nyra forced her voice to remain steady. "And what message does that bastard have for me?"
Kierian reached into his coat, and for a split second, Nyra's muscles tensed, ready to move. But instead of a blade, he pulled out a small, rolled-up parchment and tossed it onto the ground at her feet.
"Read it."
Nyra hesitated, her fingers twitching at her sides before she crouched down, snatching up the paper. A tight knot formed in her stomach, coiling like a viper ready to strike. Her pulse quickened, the air suddenly feeling too thick, too heavy. Whatever was written here, it wasn't good. It couldn't be. The parchment felt rough beneath her fingertips, the ink still fresh enough that it smudged slightly under her touch. Her pulse quickened as her eyes scanned the words, each syllable sinking into her like a stone. She unrolled it carefully, scanning the jagged ink strokes. The words made her stomach coil.
Tomorrow, you are to be presented in the great hall.
She looked up sharply. "Presented? Like some sort of fucking prize?"
For a moment, no one spoke. Riven shifted uneasily, his fingers tightening against his knee, his jaw tense like he was holding back a curse. Seraph's eyes flickered with something unreadable, but her posture had gone rigid, her breath slower, measured. The weight of those words settled over them like a death sentence.
Kierian shrugged. "That would be my guess. But if I were you, I'd get some rest."
Riven scoffed. "Rest? She's being summoned to Varthen's great hall. That doesn't exactly scream 'sweet dreams.'"
Nyra snorted. "Oh yeah, let me just curl up and drift off, knowing I might get executed tomorrow. Sounds relaxing."
"Which is exactly why she'll need her strength," Kierian said. Then, with a slight tilt of his head, he added, "Try not to look so surprised, Vale. The real question isn't why you're being summoned. It's why it took this long."
That unease from earlier clawed its way back up Nyra's spine, sharper this time, digging in like a warning. The weight of Kierian's words settled over her like a net, invisible but impossible to ignore. Her mind spun, grasping at explanations, at anything that made sense. Was this a death sentence? A spectacle? A way to break her in a way the lash never could? The worst possibilities clawed at her, but she forced herself to breathe. She couldn't afford to panic—not now, not in front of him. Something about this wasn't right. It wasn't just a summons—it was a shift in the game, a move she hadn't seen coming. But she masked it, shoving the parchment into the folds of her ragged tunic. "I'll take my chances."
Kierian studied her for a moment longer, something unreadable flickering in his expression. Then he turned and strolled toward the door. "Sweet dreams, Vale."
The moment he was gone, the tension in the barracks snapped like a pulled wire. But relief didn't come. If anything, the silence was worse. The weight of Kierian's visit lingered, thick as smoke, curling around her thoughts, refusing to settle. Nyra's fingers twitched at her sides, the ghost of adrenaline still burning beneath her skin. She had expected a beating, a punishment—something familiar, something she could brace for. But this? This was worse. This was the unknown. A collective breath was released, though no one dared to speak too loudly. The silence that followed was just as heavy as the confrontation had been, lingering like the scent of blood after a fresh beating. Nyra let out a slow breath.
"Presented?" Riven repeated, his voice edged with concern. "What the hell does that mean?"
Seraph's expression was darker than usual. "It means they've decided she's worth more than just labor."
Nyra let out a bitter laugh. "Yeah? And what exactly does that mean to them? A breeding mare? A toy for their amusement? Because I doubt it's anything fucking good."
"Great," Nyra muttered. "That can only mean good things."
Silence hung between them. The barracks around them had settled into uneasy murmurs, but Nyra's mind was too loud. Tomorrow. Something was shifting. Something bigger than her.
Seraph placed a hand on her shoulder, grounding her. "We'll figure it out."
Riven nodded. "Yeah. And if things go south, we cause some chaos. We're good at that."
Nyra let out a breathy chuckle, despite herself. "Too good."
Riven smirked, nudging Seraph playfully. "You hear that? Even Nyra admits we're impressive."
Seraph rolled her eyes, though a small smile played at her lips. "That's as close to a compliment as you'll ever get from her. Cherish it."
Nyra groaned. "I take it back. You're both insufferable."
As the barracks dimmed into restless sleep, Nyra stayed awake, staring at the ceiling. She had survived this place for years, learned how to endure, how to keep herself from breaking.
But something told her that tomorrow would be different.
And this time, endurance might not be enough.