Snow clung to Ilode’s boots as she crossed the ridge beyond the Obsidian Crown’s borders.
The night was brutal—wind sharp as broken glass, cold gnawing through leather and fur—but she welcomed it. Pain kept her focused. Pain reminded her who she was.
Her blood burned hotter with every step.
She moved without sound, body angled low, breath measured. Years of training had carved efficiency into her bones—training earned beside Lucian himself, sparring until muscles screamed and vision blurred. She knew how to disappear. She knew how to hunt.
To the kingdom, Ilode was still the loyal soldier—the disciplined trainer. The woman forged by sacrifice and duty.
Tonight, she followed neither.
The Valerian estate rose from the darkness like a scar that refused to fade.
Black timber walls climb
