Vengeance

Everywhere I look, the devastation of war is laid bare. The pit yawns before me, filled with the twisted bodies of the fallen. Their faces are locked in grim masks of agony, eyes staring sightlessly into a sky that no longer feels like it belongs to the living. Soon, the pyres will be lit, and fire will devour what little remains of them, but for now their silence weighs heavier than the cries that fill the camp. Those cries—ragged wails of the wounded—echo endlessly across the battlefield, rising and falling like the tide. They mingle with the distant clash of steel, the hollow thud of blades biting into armor, and the guttural roars of men still locked in combat. The war is not over, but here, in the heart of my father’s encampment, victory already tastes like ash. I stand among the red and black tents, their once-proud banners shredded by wind and stained with mud and soot. The air reeks of iron and smoke, of unwashed bodies pressed too close for too long. It clings to my skin, suffocating. The men who surround me are soldiers who once shared bread and laughter with me, men who called me by name with warmth. But now, when their eyes flick toward me, there is no camaraderie—only unease, suspicion, and the unspoken wish that I were already gone. “Khalida Altare.” My father’s voice cuts through the air like a blade. It booms across the camp, sharp and unforgiving, silencing even the moans of the dying. My name on his lips is not tender—it is an accusation, a sentence. “You have been found guilty of aiding the enemy. What do you have to say for yourself?” The chains around my wrists bite into my flesh as I jerk against them. My body trembles, but it is not fear that burns in me—it is fury. My voice, though cracked, is unyielding. “You would truly kill your own child, Father?” I demand, my throat raw. “This war—this endless bloodshed—was never needed! The king offered you peace, offered you a seat in his court, and you turned him away. You wanted more.” The words scrape up my throat like fire, each one a piece of truth I can no longer keep buried. I look at him—at the man who raised me—and for the first time, the veil shatters. Realization hits me like a blow. My voice falters, but the truth will not be silenced. “This war—it was never for the people. Not for freedom, not for justice. It was for you. You wanted the throne. Your selfishness started all of this!” The words barely leave my mouth before his hand lashes out. The crack of flesh against flesh resounds, and my head snaps to the side. A hot sting blooms across my cheek, blood rushing to the surface. The strike silences me, but only for a breath. The hatred boiling in my chest remains unbroken, untamed. “You will not speak to me that way,” he snarls, his towering shadow blotting out the light. “I am still your father. Yes, I started this war—but you, Khalida, you are an Altare. And yet you betrayed your bloodline, consorting with Prince Luka of all people.” The accusation drips from his tongue like poison. His gaze pierces me, daring me to deny it. I raise my chin, though my lip bleeds where his strike split the skin. My voice comes out sharp, fierce despite the tremor in it. “Luka and I love each other. Before the war began, we were engaged—do you remember that, Father? You and King Augustine planned the banquet of the century for us. Luka asked for your blessing, and you gave it. You told me you were proud. You told me I had chosen a man who would honor and protect me.” My eyes burn, but I refuse to look away. “Why betray him now? Why betray me?” His laugh is bitter, hollow, like the snapping of dry wood. “Proud?” His lips curl into a sneer. “I could never be proud of weakness. Everything I did—my feigned friendship with Augustine, my charade of loyalty—it was all to get close enough to gut him. The throne will be mine, Khalida. By fire and blood, I will take it.” The sight of his grin—so sharp, so cruel—sends a chill down my spine. He is not the man I once called father. He is something else. A groan pulls my gaze sideways. “Luka,” I whisper, my heart splintering. He stirs weakly, his body trembling as he forces his head up. His wrists are raw, skin shredded by the ropes that bind him. His tunic is torn and soaked with blood. He has always been strong—unshakable—but against my father’s soldiers, even Luka had no chance. My father’s eyes flick toward him, and the cruel delight in his expression makes bile rise in my throat. “Ah,” he murmurs. “The prince wakes. Perfect.” He turns to the crowd gathering before the makeshift stage, his arms rising as if to bless them. “Time for the execution!” he proclaims, his voice giddy with madness. The cheer that erupts is monstrous. My stomach twists violently as Kallum and Lita—rebels I once trusted, once called friends—grab my arms. I search their faces, desperate for hesitation, for remorse, for anything. But their eyes are cold, their jaws set. They drag Luka and me forward, pulling us onto a platform of splintered wood and broken wheels, nailed together from the ruins of homes my father’s war destroyed. The ropes scrape my wrists as they shackle us in place, the coarse fibers biting deep. “Brothers and sisters!” my father calls, his voice carrying over the roar of the mob. “Today, we rid ourselves of traitors. A daughter who dared to betray her blood, and her treacherous prince.” The crowd screams their approval, their bloodlust louder than thunder. The sound rattles in my bones, drowning the frantic pounding of my heart. Through the chaos, Luka turns to me. His voice is barely a whisper, hoarse and broken, but it reaches me like a lifeline. “I love you,” he murmurs, his eyes locked on mine. His bloodied hand trembles as he stretches it toward me. I seize it, though my own fingers shake. Tears streak down my face as I clutch him like the world depends on it. “I love you,” I breathe back, though the crowd roars so loudly I cannot even hear my own voice. My father steps forward, sword gleaming cold and merciless in the weak light. The steel flashes like ice, a reflection of the cruelty in his eyes. Luka does not flinch. Not when the blade rises above him. Not even when it falls. “No!” The scream rips from my throat, raw and desperate, but it drowns in the eruption of cheers. The sword finds its mark. The world shatters. I cannot see it—I cannot bear to—but I feel it. The spray of warmth across my skin, the metallic tang of blood filling the air, the sound of my own sobs tearing free from my chest. Luka’s hand goes slack in mine, and something inside me breaks beyond repair. The crowd howls, their joy as sharp and jagged as broken glass. A shadow falls over me. My father’s blade presses against my throat, cool and steady. His expression is calm, almost serene, as if he is savoring victory. I raise my chin. My voice is ragged, but hatred steadies it. Hatred, and something deeper. Something unyielding. “This will not be the end of us,” I whisper. “You may kill us here, but your life is forfeit. I swear it.” For the briefest moment, I think I see doubt flicker in his eyes. Then his lips curl, and the sneer returns. The blade descends. And then—darkness.